


The Curious Case of Cuthbert Sinclair

by EllenOfOz, MalMuses



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxious Castiel (Supernatural), Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel and Dean Winchester Use Their Words, Dancing, Demons, Don't mention the war, Enemies to Lovers, Eye Sex, Frottage, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Mystery, Oral Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, incredible amounts of eye fucking, wet shirts, window climbing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:42:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 73,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllenOfOz/pseuds/EllenOfOz, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MalMuses/pseuds/MalMuses
Summary: The murder, the mystery, the case… Dean Winchester, agent of the Men of Letters, lives for it. But when his colleague Cuthbert Sinclair goes missing while investigating a string of deaths, Bobby assigns the case to Dean, as well as assigning him a new partner. Much to Dean's irritation, he'll have to carry the dead weight of an inexperienced, probably over-pampered and arrogant lordling.But Castiel defies his every expectation.Recently returned from war, Lord Castiel Milton is haunted by demons of his own. Together, he and Dean could be everything that each has longed for...and that society won't let them have.But people are dying all over London, and what Cuthbert Sinclair saw is just the beginning.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 327
Kudos: 538
Collections: Dean/Cas Pinefest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to our Pinefest! We're so excited to share this Regency adventure with you - we hope you enjoy reading it as much as we enjoyed putting it together!
> 
> As always it takes multitudes to make a fic great. Big thanks to all the people who've looked at this story at various stages of completion, including WaywardJenn, andimeantittosting, SOBS, and TrenchcoatBaby, plus all our cheerleading Trashcan girls.
> 
> Thank you to our artist, [Amaris](https://somethingaboutnoodles.tumblr.com/) for the banner and two pieces of art in this fic - you can find the masterpost [here!](https://somethingaboutnoodles.tumblr.com/post/617040011611832320/heres-my-art-for-the-curious-case-of-cuthbert)
> 
> Thanks also to Mittens and Cass for another fun year of Pinefest. We heartily recommend checking out the other fics already posted in the collection - there are some fantastic works this year!
> 
> Ellen: I've got to add my thanks to MalMuses for agreeing to write this romp with me. Her writing has always astounded and delighted me, and to get another chance to write with her was such a joy! Thanks, Mal <3
> 
> Mal: I really just have to echo Ellen, honestly. I love to co-write with others, but it takes just the right match to make a project as enjoyable as this one has been! I doubt this is the last time you'll see the two of us working together (or I certainly hope not). 
> 
> We hope you have fun!
> 
> \- MusesOfOz 
> 
> Note: We've done so much research to make this fic as accurate as we can. But, of course, it is a fic about supernatural monsters and gay pining, so here an there, there's a liberty or two taken. Just in case, take a pinch of salt with you ;)

A sharp breeze blew along Great Guildford Street as Cuthbert Sinclair stepped out of the front door. He pulled his coat more tightly around his shoulders, adjusting his hat as his breath billowed in front of his face. "Damn this infernal late winter," he muttered to the empty street. His ears might be in danger of freezing off before he reached his apartments across the river at Blackfriars.

Determined to make quick work of the walk home, he was stomping down the steps when he saw someone stumbling up the lane ahead of him. He squinted as the man drew nearer—he was lurching, one arm held close to his side.

He walked closer, wondering if the man was injured with the way he was shuffling along. As the man passed closer to one of the gas lanterns hung at intervals along the lane, Sinclair recognized him.

"Johnston! I say, man, are you well?" he called, watching his acquaintance approach. He'd only met Alfie Johnston a handful of times, but he'd had a quiet, pleasant countenance. Now, there looked to be something on Alfie's face, his young, boyish features marred along one cheek and onto his forehead. Had he fallen, or been attacked?

Alfie finally lifted his gaze to regard Sinclair, and a sick horror took hold of his gut as he saw no recognition there—only cold contemplation.

"What has happened to you?" Sinclair asked quietly as he took in the sickly pallor, the skin that looked almost rotting in the dim lantern glow. Alfie said nothing, merely stood there and observed Sinclair with an unsettling stare.

Sinclair swallowed his dread and tried again. "Let me help you to the doctor on Bloomsbury Street..."

Alfie opened his mouth, but said nothing. Instead, a black smoke started to curl out of his throat into the chilled air. Sinclair stumbled back in horror as it moved towards him, but before he could get away, the smoke had come for him—pouring into his own open mouth, stifling the scream he tried to make as it filled his senses.

The last thing he was aware of was Alfie's body slumping to the street. Then all was darkness and screaming, screaming.

Dean leapt down from the carriage step with his hat still in hand, calling his thanks to the driver as he jogged up the steps to 31 Great Queen Street. He jammed the top hat down to his ears swiftly; while some wouldn’t care what he wore within this establishment, you never quite knew who was lurking around corners. Men of Letters were good at lurking, after all.

He wasn’t late, but he hurried—his employer rarely called in the middle of the night (or perhaps this was early morning? Dean was beyond being able to tell) unless it was something truly worth getting out of bed for.

Peeling himself from his mattress hadn’t been the worst thing—he’d been in the midst of a horrid nightmare that had stolen his breath and paralyzed his legs to the bed, again. Regardless, running in to work without so much as a proper cup of coffee wasn’t Dean’s ideal way to start the day, no matter who he was reporting to or what for.

Dean let his palm rest on the brass door handle of Bobby’s office for a moment, allowing the cool metal to chill his palm as he took a breath. Bobby— _Mister Singer,_ here—rarely called anyone to his office at this time in the morning. Mostly because he preferred to spend the earlier hours of the day critiquing breakfast meats with Rumsfeld, his loyal rottweiler, but also because if anyone was called to his office at all, it was usually bad news…and everyone knew that was best accompanied by a soothing port after supper. Dean was fairly certain, though, that he hadn’t recently done anything in particular to anger Bobby, either as an uncle or an employer, so his place within the Men of Letters was probably safe.

But, still.

Nerves.

With a swift rap of his knuckles, Dean announced his arrival at the office.

“Hurry up, boy,” Bobby rumbled as he held the door open. “Don’t let the morning air in from that drafty hall.”

Dean sidled his way into the oak-paneled anterior office, adjacent to Bobby’s more private library to the left. Dean had been admitted into the back office plenty—he’d played on the floor with blocks as a boy, even—but he wasn’t sure what Bobby wanted from him today.

“Enough of your nerves, Dean,” Bobby said, waving the bit of his pipe in Dean’s direction before jabbing it toward the armed wooden chair that mirrored his own at the desk. “This is neither a dismissal or a marriage proposal, and I can’t picture much beyond that bothering you.”

Dean gave out a small grin, pulling off his hat and settling it into his lap politely. Bobby knew him better than anyone beyond Sam, and Dean trusted him more than his own self. So, if Bobby said to calm, he’d calm. “Very well, old man. Tell me why you summoned me from my bedsheets while I can still taste last night’s whiskey, in that case.”

“Enough of the ‘old man,’” Bobby grumbled. “Or I’ll let Ellen push one of the Rosen sisters at you.”

Dean paled.

“Now,” Bobby began again, pointedly. “I know you’ve been working alone since—”

With a soft clear of his throat, Dean propelled his uncle onward. They certainly didn’t need to talk about _that._

“Yes, well,” Bobby conceded. “You must realize, of course, that it’s quite far from protocol. To that end, I was charged with assigning you a new partner.”

Stomach sinking, Dean tried to suppress his sigh. “Oh?” he asked neutrally.

“The middle Milton boy—or oldest now, I suppose—has been called back from the continent, and his family has made arrangements for him to take up his brother’s place here immediately.”

Dean frowned. “Should I know who that is?”

“Don’t let Ellen hear you. They’re in Debrett’s peerage.”

“Half of the agency is in Debrett’s,” Dean scoffed. “Means nothing to me, Bobby.”

Bobby peered at him in disbelief. “Michael! Man of Letters all his life, always looked like he was sucking on a lemon? Tragically died while on a case just a few months ago? Ringing any bells?”

“Oh, Michael!” Dean said, nodding. He hadn’t known Michael well, never got along with the chap, but his death had been a shock to the establishment late last year. “I see. I didn’t even know he had a brother.”

Bobby bowed his head, mumbling something through his beard that Dean thought he’d better not question. Instead, he leaned back into his chair, crossing his arms across the front of his simple waistcoat—it had been far too early to think about dressing up. Not for Bobby, anyway. He considered his options: complaining would get him nowhere; ignoring Bobby’s wishes would get him reprimanded and—even worse—would earn him Bobby’s disappointment. So, pushing down his own strong feelings on the matter, Dean let out a sigh.

“Alright; tell me about him.”

On top of the heavy, inherited desk, Bobby flipped open a file. “A good man, by all accounts. He’s thirty-one years old, middle son of three. Very well decorated at the front, so at least you know he’s got wits and aim.”

Dean tried to suppress a little snort; being an officer, in his opinion, didn’t automatically mean either of those things.

Bobby ignored him, rushing on through the file. “You can form your own opinion about him, Dean, but you must give him a chance. I have no option but to assign you a partner, and I have done my best to at least find you a capable one who might be able to put up with you.” Bobby’s lip curled with a smirk under his mustache. “I certainly didn’t summon you here to write a personal advertisement on his behalf—I summoned you because you’ve already been assigned a case. Not sure any of the younger lads have the stomach for it, so you’ll just have to go and meet him there.”

“You—” Dean blinked slowly. “Now? You’re sending me out with him now, on a case? Before we’ve even spoken?”

Bobby looked up, glaring at Dean from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “Did you want time to have tea and cake first?”

“I—uh, no, no, Sir,” Dean amended. Alright then. He could do this. Probably better this way, even. “What’s the case then, Bobby?”

“There’s a body,” Bobby said flatly.

“And…”

“And, it’s one of ours. Johnston.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and he sat back in his chair, shocked. “Alfie Johnston? He’s dead?”

Well. That explained why he’d been summoned in the middle of the night. Alfie was young and well-liked. He’d joined the Letters at only sixteen years old, and Dean—as well as many others—had taken it upon themselves to train him up and take him under wing. The boy had entered his twenties by now, but he was no less full of sunshine.

Or had been. Dean’s chest constricted.

“Indeed. Found this morning in Southwark. Go there and find out what the rest is. You know how this goes, boy. Get outta my office.”

Dean shook his head as he pushed up out of the seat. “Alright. The clerks have all the details the police reported?”

“That is how it works, Dean,” Bobby rumbled. Dean was almost to the door when Bobby opened his mouth again, letting out one final request. “Dean—try your best, please. Don’t be unkind; what happened to Lafitte isn’t Milton’s fault. Don’t scare him off like the others.”

Dean looked back at his uncle for a long moment before giving him a sharp nod and moving out into the corridor. Once there, door safely shut, he let out a long, shaky breath. Wonderful. Another pampered, spoiled nobleman posing as an agent, no doubt; another rookie Dean would have to watch out for on top of everything else. Just fantastic.

Storming off back to the carriage and up to his suite as quickly as he could, Dean hurried his way into more suitable attire. Sammy woke up, giving him a questioning scowl as he stomped around in his leather boots. Dean gave him little more than a few words of explanation and a rant about the partner he had not yet even met, before grabbing his overcoat and gun and heading out of the door.

The clerks directed him across the Thames, and a Men of Letters carriage took him to Great Guildford Street and a dim alley heading down toward Brooks Wharf. It smelled of drunkard’s urine and London smog, and the cobblestones were thick with grease and dirt and some poor sap’s blood. Perhaps Alfie’s, perhaps not. Around here, it’d be hard to tell. Dean was briefly grateful that he’d given no thought to eating before he left.

The clamor in the alleyway was to be expected; London folk were nosy, and the watchmen weren’t exactly doing their best to keep them away—Dean was fairly sure he saw one accept a farthing to look the other way while a group of young men gawked. Crime was, unfortunately, fair entertainment in some parts of London.

“Lettersman,” a uniformed Night Watch constable shouted. He spoke across the heads of some dawdling watchmen who should have been setting up a barrier, but were instead discussing whether the water puddles they stood in were really water at all. “Over here, sir!”

Correctly identified—his insignia fully on display above his coat—Dean shouldered his way past the men. “If you’re going to stand in piss,” he grumbled at them, “don’t hover around and chat about it.”

Once he’d reached the constable, Dean tipped his hat and turned his eyes to the body. The corpse— _Alfie_ —lay on his back, highlighted in a blinking, sparking gas street light above. “What information do you have?”

“Very little,” he admitted solemnly. “You should take a look at the body though, Sir.”

Nodding, Dean approached. He had a good stomach for smells, which was quite essential in his profession, but this alleyway was making him queasy. Johnston was sprawled face down across the cobblestone, head twisted unnaturally to the side, ungainly, eyes still open.

A slight sigh escaped Dean. He tried to school his features into professional calm, but it was always sad working out the first steps: who they were, what family they had, who loved them. Parts of his job, Dean loved with a fiery passion. This...no. He’d lost too many people himself to ever take joy in this part.

And this body in particular...quite right that Singer hadn’t sent some of the younger lads. They shouldn’t have to see one of their own in this state.

Pulling at the legs of his breeches to gain some flexibility, Dean crouched down on the ground, resting a hand on his knee. He didn’t care for being amongst the dirt, but that was what bathwater was for. He was far from squeamish. He was about to ask the watchman to begin moving everyone away when a commotion at the mouth of the alleyway caught his attention.

The bumbling watchmen and nosy neighbors were pushed aside. Overhead, the gas street lamp sparked outrageously as it was knocked, lighting the alley brighter with a sudden flare as a man, Dean’s own height bar perhaps an inch, shouldered his way through the bystanders. His boots cracked loudly across the cobbles, and the unbuttoned tan coat over his suit flapped dramatically as he strode toward Dean, single-minded. The glow of the lamp highlighted strong, angular features and uncombed hair—though whether that was from the hour or habit, Dean was uncertain—and startling, vivid blue eyes that stripped down everything around him in silence.

“Lord Milton,” the watchman greeted, apparently knowing his peerage better than Dean did, damn it. “Good to see you back in London, Sir.”

The gentleman merely gave a brief nod, dismissive, before heading on past him, toward Dean. “Good evening, Mister Winchester. I believe you were expecting me?”

If his looks were unexpected, his voice was astounding. Dean cleared his throat, shaking away some genuinely ungentleman-like thoughts, and reminding himself who this spoiled little rich boy actually was. “Milton,” he responded, not deigning to shake the hand that was offered, or use the title that he should. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to get your hands dirty. I do hope that’s not too upsetting for you, m’lord. You could always go back to bed, if this is a little much.”

Castiel Milton, all wide shoulders and distinctly disgruntled expression, didn’t look like he’d be quite so easy to put off. “Mister Singer directed me to be here. I suggest we get on with it.”

The watchman made a small choking noise, before backing away. “I’ll get the boys to clear everyone out, sirs,” he said, backing away quickly, suddenly seeming much keener on being elsewhere.

Castiel scowled, dropping his gaze from the scorn of Winchester’s eyes to the body lying sprawled on the dirty cobbles, with a slightly rotten stench about it. From what he could see of the curve of the man’s cheek and the general smell of the corpse, he looked to have been dead for some time, even though the briefing Singer had given him had placed the murder sometime close to midnight last night.

Winchester kneeled by the corpse, businesslike in his examination even though something akin to sadness seemed to pull at his features. Features that seemed to draw Castiel’s gaze back to them again and again since he’d arrived in this godforsaken alley—uncommonly fine features for a working man such as Winchester.

It had been a long week, he reflected, stepping back from the body and checking the time on his watch, before replacing it in his pocket. He'd only been at Milton Hall for a week to mourn his brother before he'd been hurried off to London to take up his place in the House as Lord Milton. Not two days more had passed before he’d been brought into the fold of the Men of Letters, London branch, complete with a baffling induction from Robert Singer, featuring some balderdash about the “forces of darkness” and “creatures lurking in the shadows of society.”

He’d had no inkling that Michael had been involved in any kind of society, let alone a secret monster-hunting one, and frankly, he was disinclined to believe in any of it until he was faced with one of these creatures himself. But his acceptance of the position meant that he was exempt from having to sit in the House of Lords, an idea that was particularly appealing. Castiel was a man who preferred actions to words.

Winchester gripped the corpse firmly by one shoulder and the fabric at a hip and shoved it over, until the poor sod was lying on his back, face up to the grey sky. The rot was more obvious now—open, ragged flesh hanging from the man’s cheek, his filmed eyes staring into oblivion. Castiel stepped back as one lifeless arm flopped out near his shoes, haphazardly. Having so recently returned from the continent, he was no stranger to corpses and the like, but he had usually moved on before bodies started to look like this. The men he had served with would have flinched away from such a smell, too.

His new colleague, Winchester, though—he was an interesting character. At present he was rifling through the jacket pockets of the victim before them, turning up little of use. Winchester was young, perhaps barely twenty-five, but had already come into his father’s title. From Singer, he’d gleaned that Winchester had a reputation as a rake, fond of female company and low entertainment. Castiel’s frown deepened as Winchester unlaced the victim’s shirt and pulled it back to expose more discolored flesh, and the remains of a faded tattoo. He covered the skin up again and pulled the man’s waistcoat back into place.

To be plucked from the front lines, Castiel had to admit, had been a welcome reprieve. But to be thrust into this…investigator role, like some inspector out of Bow Street? It was belittling, at best. In Spain, he’d commanded men, led them into battle. To be told he must now report to a peerless gentleman five years his junior bordered on insulting.

The minor noble in question stood up from his crouch, brushing off his hands with a deliberate finality. “It looks as though he’s been dead for a while,” Winchester said, barely glancing at Castiel. “Wouldn’t you agree, Milton?”

Castiel swallowed his irritation. If he was going to be partnered with this stuck up buffoon for any length of time, he might as well try to make nice. “If you say so,” he murmured, with a small nod.

Winchester nodded as well, accepting his answer. “That’s where you’re mistaken. He was seen walking along Bloomsbury Street just last night.”

Castiel huffed with annoyance. What exactly was Winchester playing at? “You think this decay on the corpse happened overnight?”

“Or he was already like this when he fell here,” Winchester said, looking down at the victim, a thoughtful look on his face.

Castiel stared at him, baffled. “What do you mean, some kind of disease, or—?”

“Hopefully,” Winchester interrupted, a smirk playing across his face.

Castiel turned away, annoyed all over again by the way this man’s smile lit up his face, even when he was being obnoxious.

Winchester continued, as though thinking out loud. “A possession, I’d wager. Poor Alfie has probably been dead for some days, as you see, but…walking around for a few more.”

Castiel stared down at the body in horror. “A spirit?”

Singer had given him a passing education in the types of creature he might encounter in the field, and he’d barely paid attention, thinking it all made-up stuff and nonsense.

Winchester rubbed his fingers over the fabric of the victim’s collar, and brought them up to his face to sniff at them. “What do you make of this?” he asked, thrusting his hand in Castiel’s direction.

Castiel huffed at the impropriety, but, glancing around to ensure no bystanders were paying them particular attention, he sniffed at Winchester’s fingers, catching a hint of something that made his nose wrinkle. “Eggs?”

“It’s brimstone, Milton. Called sulfur by the chemists,” Winchester says, turning back to the watchman still keeping bystanders at bay. “I say, would you be so good as to help us bring him to our carriage? We’d like to examine the body further back at the Chapterhouse.” He smiled winningly at the man, and Castiel wondered whether, with a smile like that, anyone would be able to refuse him whatever he asked for.

“Yes, sir. What about his missus?”

Winchester pulled a kerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped his hands again. “We’ll take care of that. Come, Milton, we’ll help”

His scowl firmly in place, Castiel waited while a plank of timber was scavenged from a nearby alley to help with carrying the decaying body. Two of the bystanding men volunteered to carry it to the back of the carriage, so they could convey it back to Great Queen Street for examination. Castiel had also heard from Singer that the people of London knew the Lettersmen and trusted them to take care of matters that were a little out of the ordinary—and to make them go away without a fuss.

Castiel joined Dean inside the carriage for the journey across the river. The carriage wound somberly through the streets of London, the deceased draped with a linen sheet from the nearby inn.

“So you’re a soldier?”

Castiel turned his head sharply to regard Winchester’s face as the carriage clattered along the cobbles. No sign of jesting. He turned towards Castiel, shrugging his shoulders. “Sorry, man, Singer didn’t tell me much.”

“I commanded a brigade on the peninsula for three years,” Castiel replied tightly.

“Brigade of what, dragoons?” Winchester’s brow quirked in a look Castiel had come to identify with those who knew little about matters being discussed but tried to sound like they did.

“Light cavalry, yes.” He reached for a way to turn the conversation. “What exactly do you suppose killed the victim, here?”

Winchester’s look darkened, and he turned his eyes back to the body lying in the carriage behind them. “Not certain, I need to consult with the experts.”

He fell quiet, and Castiel did not push further, letting the silence be.

When they reached the Men of Letters chapterhouse, the body was brought down to a cool room in the basement of the building and laid out on a table. As Castiel waited with Dean in the basement, an extremely tall man with hair tied back into a queue appeared in the doorway.

“‘Bout time, bitch,” Winchester said, moving forward to clap a hand to the man’s shoulder, who winced.

“Good morning, Dean. And this must be Lord Milton. Welcome to the Men of Letters, my lord.” The man reached out a hand, much more polite than Winchester had been at their meeting earlier.

Castiel nodded. “Milton is fine. Or Castiel. Pleased to make your acquaintance…?” He waited for the man to introduce himself, but before he could, Winchester stepped in.

“Milton, this is my brother, Sam Winchester. Finest mind the Letters have for investigations.”

Castiel eyed Sam Winchester speculatively. He was obviously a few years younger than Dean, and unfashionably dressed in serviceable brown work clothes. This was the Lettersmen’s finest mind?

Sam moved forward to flick the corner of the sheet back from the victim’s face. Recoiling in distaste at the rotting flesh, he looked up at the elder Winchester again. “Your thoughts?”

“Possession,” Winchester said, without delay. “But I’ve never seen a spirit take control for long enough for the body to decay like this. Remember that time last year when there was some worm creature getting into people’s ears?”

Castiel stared at him, wondering if he’d heard correctly. A worm?

But Sam had already moved the sheet again and was squinting down at the victim’s left ear. “No,” he said, “no black substance in the ear.”

“There’s some other substance on his lapel, though,” Winchester said, moving forward to twitch the sheet down further. Castiel could see the yellow powdery substance on the victim’s woolen coat.

Sam fingered the coat and sniffed at his fingers, just as his brother had done previously. “Sulfur?” he asked, glancing up at Winchester. “Dean, I think I know what this is.”

“And?” Winchester said, eyebrows raised. “Don’t leave us in suspense, Sam.”

Sam straightened up beside the table, a grim expression on his face. “A few weeks ago there was a similar case—man dropped dead in the middle of Christmas mass, but only after he’d tried to kill a few people in his parish church. He had sulfurous powder all over his hands and in his mouth. I looked into it—“

“Yes, alright Sammy, get to the point,” Winchester said, sounding exasperated. Castiel found he didn’t like the tone Winchester took with his brother, much.

“Demons,” Sam said, his voice low.

An uncomfortable silence filled the room. Singer hadn’t mentioned demons to Castiel in his induction.

Dean spoke first, disbelief plain in his voice. “Demons? Be serious, man. There’s no such thing.”

Sam protested, saying, "I assure you, they're real," but Dean continued to speak over him, raising his voice.

“What, are we going to have angels on the march through town next? A few casual saints drinking at the Roadhouse?”

“What makes you think it’s demons, Mister Winchester?” Castiel interrupted, for the first time.

Ignoring Dean’s derision, Sam spoke directly to Castiel. “You can call me Sam. The sulfur— they leave it behind when they leave a vessel. If the demon has been controlling the body for some time, there’s a chance it might decay before the demon leaves—”

“Demons, I ask you…” Winchester scoffed, but Castiel moved towards the body, annoyed by his flippancy. Why would demons be any more preposterous than anything else that had been proposed?

He carefully lifted the man’s coat to check inside for a pocketbook, perhaps, something to indicate why he’d been in the area late at night. Glancing up at Winchester, he asked, “You said you knew this man?”

“Yes, we all did. He’s Alfie Johnston. Well, Alfred. A younger Lettersman. He was well liked around here.” Sadness passed across his face again, and he frowned. “There’s nothing in his pockets, I already checked.”

Castiel straightened up, replacing the sheet over Alfie’s discolored face. “And would there be a record of his recent movements?”

Winchester blinked at him in surprise. “Well, yes. Bobby would have it.”

“I think we have all we need here, then,” Castiel said, heading towards the door. He turned back to see Winchester and his brother having some kind of glared conversation behind him. “Is that not the way forward, Winchester?”

“Yes, yes, very well,” Winchester said, annoyance plain in his face and bearing.

Castiel nodded to Sam, saying, "Pleased to meet you, Mister Winchester" and began to climb the stairs to the ground level of the chapterhouse.

Behind him, he heard a low voice, "That's your new partner?"

Dean’s reply came a moment after. "Yes, I know. Shut up, Sam."

Castiel's scowl deepened. Dean Winchester could think what he liked of him. He wasn't used to being well liked, and he didn't see why that should change now.


	2. Chapter 2

31 Great Queen Street was a fine building, maintained by a staff of twenty and the main office for nearly a hundred men. The Men of Letters had many fine traditions, and most of them took place within the offices of number 31. Even if Lord Castiel Milton was to be nothing but a foppish annoyance, Dean would have to admit that he took some pride and pleasure in showing him around the Letters’ headquarters.

“I have no doubt,” Dean said, stepping out of Singer’s office with Milton in tow, “that when you arrived you were hustled unceremoniously to Bobby’s office and given little time to breathe or look, let alone find your way around the halls.”

They’d only been in Bobby’s office a few minutes, leaving word with his secretary of the morning's events. They’d report back in later, as soon as the research boys and lab men had been given a little time to do their work. Always busy, Bobby trusted Dean to know what to do by now.

Castiel inclined his head. “That is true. Mister Singer”—his use of the title felt pointed, but Dean let him finish before rising to the bait—“was kind enough to give me at least a brief run-down of matters, but everything has been a bit of a whirlwind, I will admit.”

“Bobby,” Dean said determinedly, striding onward down the hall, “is my uncle. So I shall call him what I will; there are privileges beyond mere title, after all. And believe me, I have earned them.”

Blinking in a manner that could have been offense, Castiel chose to answer simply with, “Ahh. So, it was Mister Singer who decided that we should”— _Be stuck with each other_ hung in the air, unsaid—“work together,” Castiel finished after a loaded moment.

“Yes,” Dean said dryly. “Exactly right.”

“I see.”

“What exactly is it that you think you see?” Dean couldn’t help but push, frowning.

Lord Milton, it seemed, wasn’t quite the weak nobleman Dean had expected, at least not in wits and tongue.

“What I think I see,” Castiel answered bluntly, “is that you don’t want me here, and you consider my assistance beneath you. Your reasons for that are your own and I don’t seek to know them, but as we are stuck together, I don’t believe it unreasonable to ask for a modicum of good manners from you.”

Dean’s mouth flapped once, twice, before he closed it with a huff. “Good manners,” he intoned snappily, “would infer not talking on matters which you know nothing about. Now, do you want a tour of this damned labyrinth or not, m’lord?”

“Castiel, then, if we are to be partnered, like it or not.” Castiel pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and took a peek, before sliding it back in. “I am supposed to obtain some kind of initiatory tattoo, I was told, before the end of the day. Would that be on the tour?”

“Ahh, yes,” Dean said, nodding as he stepped on down the wood-paneled hallway once more. “The tattoo is definitely necessary. I can show you the main areas you’ll need for research and when reporting in here, then we can go visit the Roadhouse Inn for your tattoo. They’re part of our network; the tattooist works out back.”

Castiel nodded, then, his boots clicking along the polished wooden floors next to Dean. The Men of Letters had, for the most part, given up on carpeting for the frequently traversed corridors of 31 Great Queen Street several years before. Scrubbing away blood, mud, and miscellaneous viscera was a much simpler task on hardwood, the housekeeper had declared.

Against his own better judgement, Dean’s eyes skimmed across Castiel’s rather fine frame. “Have you been inked before, Castiel?” he asked. He doubted it—Castiel seemed like good money and fine breeding, and hardly the type of man to be found around docks or prisons. But the conversation was already awkward, so Dean grabbed whatever straws he could.

“Yes.”

“Yes?” Dean repeated, surprised.

“Yes,” Castiel said again, and apparently that was to be the end of it.

Clearly shut down, Dean nodded to himself before he cleared his throat, gesturing to the great stairway they had come upon at the end of Singer’s corridor. “As you can see, this main atrium opens up into four hallways on the ground floor, and the staircase to the floors above. The hallway we came from is administration, mostly. Bobby and a bunch of the paper-pushing old men that run the Agency have offices there. That one”—Dean pointed as he carried on—“leads to the kitchens and common areas. Next to it, training rooms and laboratories. The last, research and libraries, where my brother is based. Upstairs, you’ll find dormitories and smaller, private offices for the higher up Lettersmen who don't bunk with us over on Sackville Street. I doubt someone like you will have any need for such lowly residences, but there they are.”

Castiel wore some kind of slightly confused, frustrated frown, but he said nothing. With a sharp nod, he took a moment to look around, taking in the large portraits of elder, esteemed Lettersmen that adorned the high-ceilinged, burgundy-walled entryway.

“We can grab a carriage to the Roadhouse,” Dean said, already striding off toward the front door. “Ash will make an opening for you, even if he doesn’t have one.”

“Ash?” Castiel inquired as they made it out onto the stone steps that led down to street level, clearly curious as to the odd name.

“Just Ash,” Dean said. “No other name for anyone to worry about.”

Castiel looked disgruntled. Or at least, Dean thought he did...he was beginning to wonder if that was just the man’s default expression.

The curricle ride down past St. Paul’s to The Roadhouse Inn was blessedly swift. Castiel offered nothing of himself, and Dean didn’t ask. Instead, they were stuck in the chill silence of the cool winter’s day, both sitting stiffly, sneaking appraising glances at the other when each thought they wouldn’t be caught.

It was ridiculous, but Dean allowed it to continue, nonetheless.

Dean jumped down from the step of the carriage in a much better mood; simply being near the establishment was enough to put a spring in his step, and not only due to the very cheap scotch that the place carried with his name on it. Owned by Ellen Harvelle, a Men of Letters affiliate since birth, the Inn was lively and not too haughty, and Dean had spent much of his downtime here ever since he was a boy.

“Jo!” Dean boomed upon entry, striding straight across the polished wooden floor and up to the bar, slapping his hand down upon it.

“Dean,” the blond, fiery barmaid said fondly, approaching him at once with a wink and a whiskey, ready-poured. “Early in the day, isn’t it?”

“Sadly, business before pleasure today,” Dean said (though he had no qualms about taking the offered glass). “I’ve got some fresh meat that needs branding.”

Jo blinked, peering over Dean’s shoulder to where Castiel stood, looking around the dim inn with a disfavorable squint. “Oh,” she said, raising her eyebrows at Dean, sharing a significant look. “I see.”

Dean rolled his eyes, mouthing silently to her as Castiel was turned to observe the rest of the room, “Won’t last a week, I’ll wager.”

Jo covered a smirk with a light cough, before stepping around the bar to open a door to the side. “It’s pleasant to meet you, Sir,” she said, bobbing her politest curtsey to Castiel. “To whom do I have the honor?”

“Milton, Castiel Milton.” He inclined his head slightly awkwardly, before shuffling through the door and tacking on hurriedly, “Uh, ma’am. Yes. Pleased to meet you, also.”

 _Clearly, this one charms ladies left, right, and center,_ Dean thought snidely, smirking at the way Castiel had not only forgotten his own title, but didn’t seem to realize he hadn’t even asked Jo for her name. He didn’t mention it—he was not that cruel, even if he wished he could be—and moved along behind them.

Dean wasn’t, however, a good enough man that he could resist a whisper as he pressed past Castiel in the corridor. “Her name is Jo Harvelle, m’lord. You know, in case it comes up in conversation.”

Castiel’s cheeks burned something fierce, but he said nothing at all, sweeping off down the corridor in the same unfashionable beige overcoat he’d worn all day. Dean shook his head and swilled back his scotch. He was going to have his work cut out with this spoiled buffoon. Still, he’d better play nice. He didn’t want to disappoint Bobby, after all.

So, when they reached the small room at the end of the corridor, Dean sat down on one of the stools that Ash provided for customers, paying or otherwise, and gestured for Castiel to take the seat in the center of the room with a small smile. “I’m sure Ash won’t be long—Jo’ll go fetch him right away.”

Jo nodded her agreement, and disappeared out into the hallway once more, taking Dean’s already-empty scotch cup with her.

“Fetch him?” Castiel queried lightly, taking a moment to look around the small, dark room behind the bar. It was lit only by old fat candles, and the whole space had a slightly burnt-smelling, fusty odor. The fireplace was low, hissing and spitting, and there were no windows. It was almost full of furniture, packed with several stools, chairs, and a bed, and a long table covered with small pots and tools.

“Yeah, he’s probably at the opium den down the street.”

Castiel blinked several times, his hand tightening on the arm of his chair, but said nothing, though he did moisten his lips emphatically.

Dean only lasted a few more seconds before his laughter overtook him. “Take a breath, man, I’m only messing with you. He lives upstairs.”

Not to say that Ash _didn’t_ get lost in the opium den on occasion, Dean considered to himself. Just not always.

“Ahh,” Castiel said, raising an eyebrow uncertainly. He seemed undecided whether to laugh or be offended; in the end he settled for shaking his head and turning away from Dean to watch the dwindling fire.

For a few minutes, Dean let him stew before taking pity on him. It was a lot, Dean supposed. If you hadn’t been raised in it, to have all this dumped on you in a week and then be dragged to a dingy bar to have an unknown tattoo slapped onto your skin by a stranger known only as “Ash,” who may or may not be an opium addict...Dean wasn’t a bully. He was a lot of things, but not that.

“Might as well get comfortable,” Dean said, indicating Castiel’s coat. “Have you seen one of the Letters protection symbols before? The tattoo has to go right here,” he added, thumping his own chest above his heart.

“I have not,” Castiel replied quietly, his eyes flickering across to Dean’s chest somewhat reluctantly, Dean felt.

“They aren’t that terrible,” Dean said, reaching up to pull open his cravat. Castiel’s eyes followed Dean’s fingers as he unlaced his shirt, tugging it aside with his waistcoat to expose his left pectoral to Castiel. “See? An hour, at most.”

Castiel took a step toward Dean, but then seemed to catch himself, stopping short. “They all look the same?” he asked, his voice tight.

“Yes,” Dean said, looking down at the ink on his own chest. It was in the shape of an Aquarian star, the symbol of the Men of Letters. It was an old symbol, a hexagram that purportedly possessed great power. While it didn’t make the agents invincible, it did hide them from certain beings and aid with resistance to spirit possession and fae influence. The star was six pointed and spindly looking, formed of one continuous line, solid black, and thickly etched into the skin. It was renewed any time it began to fade more than was judged safe.

“It’s a symbol that will help protect you from certain possessions,” Dean explained once Castiel had looked his fill.

“Like the body in the alleyway,” Castiel said.

“Alfie,” Dean snapped, before he could help himself. “His _name_ was Alfie.”

“I—” Castiel shut his mouth with a snap, before looking up to meet Dean’s eyes. “Apologies. I meant no disrespect.”

The creak of the door opening cut off any thought of a response Dean could have made. Ash stepped within, kicking the door closed again carelessly. “Mister Winchester,” he greeted Dean, extending his skinny hand to greet him warmly.

“Ash,” Dean said, giving him a genuine smile.

Ash was a little shorter than Dean, a man of slight build but massive intelligence. He wore his hair a little longer than fashion dictacted, and had for the entire twenty years Dean had known him.

“This is Lord Castiel Milton,” Dean introduced, gesturing to Castiel with one hand while his other moved his shirt back into place. “He comes to us fresh from the continent to fill his brother’s place in our ranks.”

“It’s a pleasure, my lord,” Ash said, affecting a bow that may have been just deep enough to feel sarcastic, but passed muster nonetheless. “You had a brother in the Letters?”

“I did,” said Castiel. “I was unaware of it all myself, until this week.”

“Oh,” said Ash, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Well. Best we get you inked up then, Sir, if they’re putting you out on the street that green.”

Dean shared a little smirk with Ash; only the two of them knew how often Dean had been here in the past year, with various attempts at partners.

Castiel scowled down at the ground, clearly fed up with feeling like he was on his back foot. He moved back toward the center seat in the room and began to shuck off his coat.

“Let me take that for you, m’lord,” Ash said, seemingly remembering his manners. “If you can strip down to your waist, we’ll get this done as fast as we can.”

Ash moved over to the table of inks, gathering up a few pots onto a small stool near the chair Castiel would occupy. He picked out several tools, laying them alongside, and then moved over to the fireplace, stoking it and packing it high so that heat and light flared through the room. “Apologies if it gets a bit warm,” Ash muttered. “I need the light. Been on at Ellen to pay for some of the new lighting in this place, but I suppose all the gentlemen up at the headquarters get the funding, not lowly scrubs like me.”

Dean made a slight face, but said nothing. Ash was likely right, and there was little to be done about that, much to Dean’s chagrin.

“Will the chair be alright here?” Castiel asked, dragging it closer to the fire when Ash indicated so with a wave.

Dean busied himself poking around on Ash’s ink desk, swirling the small pots and shuffling through the tools. He realized he was being an irritation, of course, but it was a lot better than turning around and facing Castiel’s physique once he’d removed that darn coat. Dean didn’t quite trust himself, and there were certainly some things, partner or not, that the good Lord Milton just didn’t need to know.

Unfortunately, Dean couldn’t stay tinkering with Ash’s supplies for much longer. Not only was it rude, but Ash started complaining when Dean knocked over a bunch of them. Dean bristled—it wasn’t like he actually _broke_ anything—but sucked in a breath and turned to watch, regardless.

By then, Castiel was seated on a backless stool, up in front of the fireplace, shirt gone. His hands lay on his lap, gripping his legs tightly. Dean was surprised, and perhaps the smallest bit impressed, to note that Castiel didn’t make a single sound as Ash began. His jaw clenched and his fingers worked his impressive thigh muscles, but he didn’t cry out, or hiss, or bite a lip. He was stoic, moreso even than Dean had been when Ash first tattooed him.

The process of receiving the tattoo was a simple, if somewhat painful, one. Ash had long, sharp tools that reminded Dean of hedgehog spines or pen quills, and he pulled the skin tight, puncturing hundreds, perhaps thousands, of tiny holes in the skin, forcing ink down within. It was slow, like someone hand-darning a patch on your chest, and Dean couldn’t say he was a big fan of the sensation. But, he was a big fan of not letting a spirit take him over or bend him to its will, and so it was done regardless.

In the fireplace, the flames leaped high and orange, lighting up the whole room in a blend of brightness and shaking shadow. The color highlighted Castiel’s surprisingly tan skin, and Dean was helpless but to let his eyes wander. On the stool, Castiel sat stiff and upright, as Ash had instructed. His shoulders were wide, wide enough to set Dean’s chest to thumping and his throat to clicking when he tried to swallow, suddenly all dry mouth and cotton breaths. He vaguely wished he’d saved his scotch. Castiel’s skin was smooth and unblemished for the most part, with fewer scars and marks than Dean would have expected from someone returning from the horrors of the Spanish front.

There were, however, tattoos.

On Castiel’s back, across his shoulder blades and down his spine, there rested an inky black coptic cross, proud and bold on his skin. Across the top, beneath the uppermost bump of his spine, was placed the monogram _IHS._ Curling underneath, across Castiel’s kidneys, ran the adage, _Coram Deo._

In His Service, Castiel was branded, his pilgrim tattoos placed on his body as a permanent reminder: _Coram Deo_ : In the presence of God.

Dean blinked. He’d heard tell of pilgrim tattoos before—even seen one—but never of one so large. It seemed totally at odds with the life that Castiel had been forced into, walking in the darkness, saving people, hunting things, beasts the good book told nothing of. Surprised, Dean didn’t mention it. Castiel had shut him down when he’d enquired about the tattoo earlier. He might be uncouth and loud, but Dean had enough manners to know when not to pry.

Wrenching his eyes away from the tattoos didn’t much help Dean, though, as there were still acres of smooth muscle to consider. Dean began feeling warm beneath his collar, and it wasn’t solely the fault of the flames in the hearth. Castiel’s face, ruggedly handsome and angular, had been noticeable even when they’d met in the midst of the filthy alley near the wharf. But his body had been hidden, for the most part; clearly well-built, but its details muffled by layers of cotton and that damned beige coat. He was, Dean realized with some annoyance, the most beautiful man he’d ever laid eyes upon.

Moistening his lips helplessly, Dean observed the way Castiel’s back muscles rolled and stretched as Ash had him sit up and shake out his shoulders for a moment before returning to his business. Dean had no right, he reminded himself, to look upon Castiel the way he was doing. It was dishonest, it was scandalous...it was harmless, Dean told himself, as Castiel knew nothing of his rarely spoken, base inclinations.

Sweat gathered on Castiel’s nape and at his hairline, the closeness of the flames—and no doubt the pain of the tattoo—heating his body while Ash worked. Dean’s eyes followed a bead of it as it rolled down from Castiel’s collarbone and across his chest, leaving a damp path. It ran down the opposite side from where Ash worked, trailing to the bottom right of his ribcage. Dean couldn’t help but note a singular, creamy brown freckle that perched northwest of Castiel’s lush, dark nipple. Dean wanted lean in, trace the freckle with his tongue, and—

“Dean?” Ash prompted, with the air of someone who’d asked more than once.

Swiftly, Dean forcibly cleared his throat and jerked his eyes upward. “Yes?”

“Towels, man,” Ash reprimanded, a horrifyingly knowing smirk on his face. “Ask Jo for fresh rags for me, will you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Dean dared to look across to Castiel, to judge whether…

Castiel looked at Dean coolly, his eyes unreadable, one eyebrow darkly quirked up his forehead. He didn’t look away, his gaze challenging, questioning, as he looked back at Dean.

Dean swallowed harshly, biting back bile and not a little shame, before dashing from the room.

He returned, much more put together, to find that Ash had made good progress. The tattoo was almost done already, the darkest portion of the outer circle that ringed the star already half-done.

“Excellent work, as always,” Dean complimented, leaving the rags within reach.

Castiel grabbed one, reaching with the hand furthest from Ash to mop behind his sweaty neck.

“Please, Sir,” Ash said, not a little annoyed, “stay still. Have Mister Winchester do it, rather than risk your tattoo and my fingers.”

Smirking at hearing Ash refer to him so politely, Dean gave his head an amused shake before he reached out, taking the bundled rag from Castiel’s hand. Their eyes met for a long moment, and Dean parted his lips, almost wanting to apologize for—for what? He couldn’t say any of that.

So he simply flushed, and dropped his gaze, and tried to think of the least arousing things a man could encounter while he gently dabbed the beads of moisture from the back of Castiel’s neck and down his spine. He let out a small huff of frustration; this was ridiculous. The man was stand-offish and spoiled and not Dean’s type of company, even if he _was_ blessed sustenance for starved eyes. Best that Dean get a grip on himself and stop acting like a boy with a calf’s-love crush on his first maid.

If the maid was irritating and stuck-up.

Castiel stretched again, under instruction, and Dean drew his cloth back swiftly, gulping.

_Sweet Jesus._

Perhaps Castiel’s God was real after all, because finally, after Dean prayed hard enough, it was all over. Castiel was covered in a light gauze and told to avoid wearing his waistcoat too tight across his front for several days. As he laced his shirt back up across his sternum, Dean cleared his throat, speaking for the first time in long minutes.

“We should head straight back to headquarters,” he snapped out roughly. “So that we can check in with Singer, and see what news he has about Alfie from the laboratories.”

 _And so that I can have a swift rub down with an extremely cold cloth,_ Dean berated himself mentally.

“Very well,” Castiel answered, serene and—just perhaps—slightly smug.

The curricle took them back to Great Queen Street, and the two men headed straight upstairs to Mister Singer’s office. Castiel was still not sure he would ever remember his way around this place—the corridors and rooms were confusing and endless. They reached Singer’s office though, and with merely a glance back at him, Winchester knocked soundly.

At Singer's call, Winchester pushed open the door, and they entered the oak-panelled room. Singer rose from the seat behind his book-laden desk to greet them, then indicated the seats in front of it.

"Please, be seated," he said, continuing as Castiel and Winchester moved forward to sit. "I've looked into Alfie's movements and cases before…this morning's events." He shook his head sadly. "Then I went personally to call on Hael, his wife. Not my favorite house call to have to make."

As Singer took a moment to compose himself, Castiel supposed what Winchester had said was true—Alfie Johnston had been well liked among the Society here. Castiel glanced at Winchester, only to see more sadness about his eyes.

Singer continued, "According to his missus, Alfie hasn't been home these last few nights. Lud knows why she didn't report him as missing sooner, or we might have found him, but he hasn't been at home since he left for work last Monday morning."

Dean sat forward on his chair. "Monday…I saw him on Monday, I believe. He seemed his usual self, cheerful and keen."

Singer nodded. "He was around here in the morning, yes," he said, "but headed out to check on a case he'd been working on." He tapped his fingers on a paper in front of him on the desk. "Sam's report says time of death five days ago, minimum, probably from heart failure. And yet, he was seen by one of our informers, walking around the area last night."

Here was finally something Castiel could agree with—the reports were strangely conflicting.

"How sure are we that those reports are to be trusted?" Castiel gestured to the paper on the desk. "The decay on the body was—"

"We can trust Indra," Winchester said, dismissing Castiel's question. Castiel bristled at the interruption, as Dean continued, "He might be drunk most of the time, but his eyes are open." He turned to Singer. "Alfie had sulfur on him. Sam said he suspected demons—did he mention that?"

Castiel had expected Singer to be as skeptical as he and Dean had been, but his face was serious. "He did."

Castiel shared a quick glance with Winchester, who looked back to his mentor.

"You think there's something to that?"

Singer took a deep breath and let it out again, as though weighing his next words. "Demons…are bad news. But we'll need more information. Alfie called on a Mister Henriksen in Covent Garden, so you can start there. I’m sure you’ve heard of him at least, Dean, the man hosts frequently. I've arranged an invitation for you both to a card party being held there this evening."

Castiel's jaw dropped in surprise. Singer had told him that duty might call at any time, and he knew Michael had kept odd hours when he and Anna had visited London before. But he'd been at this since early this morning, and he was supposed to go out again tonight, with Winchester, no less?

"Tonight?" Winchester asked, sounding as surprised as Castiel was. When Castiel glanced at him, he was met with a deep scowl.

Not that he'd been particularly keen on spending any more time with his new partner than he needed to, but Winchester's apparent dislike of the idea cut him more than he wanted to admit.

"Yes, tonight," Singer insisted, raising his voice. "You think I just get you into this stuff for fun, boy? Hunters don't just die for no reason. We need to know what happened to Alfie, and this is the only lead we've got."

Winchester sounded chastised as he said, "Yes, Sir, but why can't you send—"

"Because you're the best we've got, Dean. I reckon you and Lord Milton here could get into all sorts of places between you. I need you on this one. Besides, bloody Sinclair hasn’t checked in for a couple of days now, so I’m out of options."

Castiel knew Singer was probably right, they could get access to information others couldn’t, but he said anyway, "With due respect, if Winchester doesn't want to go to the party, maybe it would be wise to—"

"You're going," Singer snapped, leaving no room for argument. "Now get out of here."

They both stood and headed towards the door, but as Castiel’s hand was on the handle, Singer added, "And Dean?"

They both turned as Singer added, "Be careful."

Winchester scowled as they both beat a hasty retreat out of the office, and headed back down the hallway.

Castiel couldn't help but huff his impatience, as Winchester stalked down the hall like he had a personal storm cloud over his head.

Winchester whirled on him, causing Castiel to flinch back as though the man was going to strike him. Instead he snarled, "I don't like this either, so don't even start."

Castiel held up his hands. "If the idea of spending the evening with me is so repulsive to you, perhaps we don't both need to go." He winced at the shocked look that passed over Winchester's face. He hadn't meant the words to have quite so much of a sting.

"No," Winchester said, his tone more moderate now. "We'll both have to go. Bobby will know, believe me." He turned away and continued down the hallway to the stairs.

Castiel stood for a few moments, collecting himself. How had he been stuck with such an infuriating partner? For Lud's sake, he hadn't even wanted to be part of this, but it had been quite clear in Michael's will that this was a position of honor and it was to be passed to Castiel in particular. After one day in the position, he didn't feel particularly honorable.

He followed Winchester at a short distance and in silence all the way to the Men of Letters gentlemen's apartments, not far away in Sackville Street. The women affiliated with the society had similar accommodations, over in Clifford Street, but the men's building was an imposing brick tenement that had been on the site since after the great fire.

Winchester gave Castiel the barest glance as he said, "I'll see you here at eight," and hurried through the door.

Castiel stomped upstairs to his apartment, recently his late brother's. They'd all been shocked by his death at only thirty-eight—Castiel called back from the Peninsula with no notice, thrust into this lordly position with no training.

He wondered why it was that Michael had been content with lodging here, rather than renting his own house in London. The Men of Letters' apartments were comfortable enough, but with only one footman shared between several people, it was hardly befitting his rank. Admittedly, Castiel rarely wore fashionable enough clothes to require aid with dressing. At least until now.

Dinner awaited him in his apartment—quail stuffed with hazelnuts, and buttered potatoes. By the time he'd eaten, washed his face and decided what to wear for the card party, it was nearly eight, and time to meet Winchester once more.

Castiel had been surprised by Winchester’s behaviour in Ash’s tattoo parlor. They’d said very little to each other on the return journey, other than Winchester sniping at him to stop it when he’d scratched absently at the stinging on his chest. The tattoo hadn’t hurt as much as his previous ones—Ash had been surprisingly gentle. But the way Winchester had been staring at him on more than one occasion had made his skin heat in a way Castiel had been trying to suppress for many years now.

Castiel stood in front of his dresser mirror and lifted the gauze covering his new tattoo, revealing the pink skin beneath. Was it his pilgrim’s tattoos that were so distasteful to Winchester? He'd seemed so flustered upon seeing them. He replaced the gauze and turned so he could see the marks on his back in the mirror. Castiel himself certainly wasn’t so fond of them any longer, not after he’d seen the horrors men were capable of. How could God possibly love a race that visited such depravity on one another?

And yet, Winchester had seemed so moved by the death of his colleague. The man couldn't be as cold-hearted as he seemed, could he?

Castiel dressed in fresh breeches and re-tied his cravat, trying hard not to rub or scratch at the abominably itchy skin around his new tattoo. He called the valet in to help him finish dressing in one of Michael’s blue tailcoats and his own black boots before he hurried downstairs to meet his partner.

The carriage ride to Covent Garden wasn't long, but with all the people out and about for the height of the season, it took some time. Neither of them spoke to each other, and by the time they reached their destination, Castiel was jiggling his leg and wishing he'd been able to convince Winchester to leave him behind.

It had gone nine by the time he and Winchester were admitted to Henriksen's drawing room, and they both sank gratefully into chairs away from the card tables to sip their sherry and try to recover their senses.

The room was set up simply—a long, well-appointed room with several card tables placed throughout. Perhaps two dozen people were in attendance, men and women, either playing Whist or just observing.

Standing once again as their host graciously welcomed them, Winchester surprised Castiel by being unexpectedly polite. "Allow me to introduce a colleague of mine—Castiel, Lord Milton."

Henriksen, a well-built, dark-skinned man, said, "Lord Milton! Lovely to make your acquaintance—I was fond of your brother—terrible circumstances, my condolences."

Castiel nodded and murmured a greeting, not sure what else was to be said, but was nevertheless drawn into Henriksen's circle and introduced to a half-dozen people whose names Castiel immediately forgot.

Winchester, however, shook everyone's hand and charmed them with a wide smile that lit up his entire face. Was this really the same aloof, angry man that had snapped at him back at headquarters? He was either a supreme actor, or this was his natural environment, as he laughed at some young lady's joke and let her lead him off to play a hand of cards at one of the nearby tables.

A hand on Castiel's arm startled him, and he turned, embarrassed to realize he'd been staring at Winchester. Henriksen stood there, his shrewd eyes watching.

"He's quite the rake, isn't he? Have you known each other long?"

Castiel shook his head, trying to recover his composure. "We only met…recently, in fact."

Henriksen nodded. "What a stroke of luck, then! Winchester is quite well-connected; he'll get you invited to all sorts of places. Come, tell me how London society has been treating you."

Castiel followed him over to a comfortable settee near an open fireplace and gratefully accepted a new glass of sherry.

"Did your brother leave you much in London, Lord Milton?" Henriksen asked, settling himself at the other end of the settee.

Castiel sipped at his drink, considering his answer. Michael had left him much more than he'd expected, after all.

"His apartments are comfortable enough, although I was surprised by his membership in the Men of Letters."

Singer had been quite clear when he'd given Castiel the speech and made him swear the oath: the Men of Letters was a society of scientists and criminal investigators to the residents of London, and the supernatural aspect of their work was kept strictly secret. He still wasn't convinced any of it was real.

"Ah yes, that mysterious society," Henriksen said. "They'll keep you on your toes."

"Actually, I wonder if you know another colleague of mine—Alfie—" He stopped short, realizing in dismay that he had forgotten Alfie's last name. Some investigator he had turned out to be.

"Yes, Alfie was here last weekend. Maybe Monday? He left rather early—he had a message from your superiors asking him to investigate some strange goings-on at the old church up at Saint Pancras. Didn’t say much about it, but he left, even at such a late hour. The Men of Letters work you hard, don’t they?"

"Indeed," Castiel agreed, feeling the truth in that statement already. He wondered if this could be the lead they’d been looking for. "The church at Saint Pancras? That’s way out on the edge of town, isn’t it?”

“Yes, indeed, it’s—”

Henriksen stopped suddenly to look up as a young lady approached, bobbing a curtsey.

Castiel and Henriksen quickly rose, giving her a small bow, Henriksen continuing to say, “Lady Daphne! How do you do?”

Lady Daphne smiled prettily and said, “Well, thank you Mister Henriksen. But you mustn’t keep Lord Milton to yourself all night.” Her eyes turned to Castiel, her eyelashes fluttering slightly.

Henriksen chuckled. “Beg pardon, m’dear. Allow me to introduce Lord Milton, recently arrived in London. Lord Milton, this is Lady Daphne Allen, of Derbyshire.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Lady Daphne,” Castiel said, feeling like he’d been thrust back into his mother’s schemes to get him married before he’d left for the war. She’d tried to introduce him to any number of eligible ladies around their ancestral seat in Hertfordshire, and Castiel had tried to be civil to all of them. The trouble was, he felt no attraction to any of them.

His eyes flicked over towards Winchester, to see him deep in the cards, a young lady dangling from his arm. He tried to hold in the disapproving frown that wanted to emerge, and instead indicated the seats around where they stood. “Shall we sit?”

After they were arranged and drinks refreshed, Lady Daphne placed her gloved hand on Castiel’s wrist.

"Lord Milton," she gushed, "Mister Winchester tells us you've recently returned from the peninsula."

"Did he indeed?" Castiel asked, turning to locate Winchester, who was still happily playing Whist across the room.

"Were you there at San Sebastián?" she asked, and Castiel’s stomach turned to ice. He pulled his wrist back from her grasp, a roaring in his ears. Why on earth had he agreed to this?

The young lady was not put off by Castiel’s reluctance to answer, though. "Is it true the English soldiers pillaged the town and burned everything to the ground?"

_A drunken soldier, beating some poor soul with the butt of his rifle. A woman’s frightened screams as she fled along a lane, away from the invading mob…_

Castiel closed his eyes against the memories, but they were burned into the back of his eyes and deeper, into his very soul.

"Go on, you must have heard something about it, at least? What was it like?"

_The cries...the screams…_

"I was there, yes," Castiel said and rose, intent on removing himself from the situation. This was not something he was prepared to discuss.

"Please excuse me," he muttered and left the room without a backwards glance.

While more high-brow entertainments were never going to be among Dean’s favorite pastimes, he could usually pass muster at a card party with very little fuss. He was uncommonly good at Whist and Faro, and while dice didn’t favor him the way hands of cards tended to, he could break even in a brisk game of Hazard.

It was easy for Dean to let out dazzling smiles to bamboozle young ladies (and men alike, though those eyes he was smart enough to catch more subtly). A reputation as a bit of a rake, which he was well aware of having and cultivated strangely proudly, often did him good in terms of loose tongues and frequent company. Or, it did him little harm, at least. With his job and his wandering inclinations, Dean had little want to ever settle a female beside him and return to Winchester Hall, in the country. He lived for the Letters, for London, for this life.

“New trick,” Dean’s Whist partner for the game, a young gentleman by the name of Harry, called over the table cheerily. “Spades lead.”

Dean tossed out his offering onto the table, returning to his thoughts.

Hands of cards and crystal tumblrs of fine scotch were excellent perks to doing his job. Though he still wasn’t certain how they’d help tonight; from what he knew of Alfie, cards weren’t his vice.

The giggly little blonde who dangled from Dean’s elbow as he cleared the table of pennies was a nice enough girl, he supposed, but it did seem that every time he was forced to step out beyond the comforts of the Roadhouse Inn and into finer society, the women got younger and younger and the men older and more bitter. It was his age, he supposed. Women of his birth year were edging toward the upper-end of marriageable at a frightening pace, but as a man he was lucky and could do as he wished.

Well, as long as he kept Bobby and Ellen convinced he was fulfilled and busy. Any inkling that he ever felt lonely, or wished for things he didn’t have, and Aunt Ellen would likely clip his ear and try to match him with some wilting, unclaimed maid.

A brief shudder passed across Dean’s shoulders at the thought, causing his blonde card companion to look askance at him. What was her name, again? She was one of Viscount Whitelaw’s nieces from up at the borders in Cumbria, Dean was sure.

She settled with a mere smile, and Dean went back to his main business: pretending to be fully absorbed in the deceptively simple card game while he observed the crowds.

“Leading with diamonds,” Dean said, placing his eight carefully into the center of the table.

Very little seemed out of place. How, exactly, Bobby expected them to pick up anything about young Alfie here was anyone’s guess.

Dean’s gaze drifted around the room, seeing what he could catch.

He didn’t intend to end up staring at Castiel—of course he didn’t. But the man looked ridiculously handsome in his crisp white cravat as he sat talking quietly with Henriksen, the fabric color of his blue tailcoat bringing out his vivid eyes. Careful not to let his eyes rest on Castiel inappropriately long, Dean moved on around the room, cataloging attendance.

It was a good turnout, for a small card party. But that barely helped, either.

“Mister Winchester,” Harry called over the hubbub, grinning over the table. “Are our hands so poor we can’t hold your attention?”

Dean laughed, covering easily with a hearty wink as he threw out another card, breaking suit and losing the round, but caring little. “There’s much to be distracted by in this room, I find.”

The blonde next to Dean’s chair tittered. She was a little irritating, Dean decided.

“Indeed there is. Your new colleague there is certainly catching some eyes.”

“Unsurprising, I suppose,” Dean said. “The ladies tend to love mysterious, handsome men just returned from war, in my experience.”

“More fool them,” said Harry, with a snort. “None of them ever come back quite the same, I find.”

Dean made a small sound of agreement. It wasn’t really a route of conversation he wished to pursue, nor was it useful, but he accepted the truth of it. Dean had never been to the battlefields, himself, his work with the Letters taking all of his time and interest. The French, he’d heard, conscripted their soldiers against their will; as always, Dean was grateful for his residence in London, as grimy as it could sometimes be.

Letting his eyes drift to Castiel again, Dean couldn’t help but wonder what horrors the man had seen. Still, he seemed just fine to Dean, solemn and prickly and slightly aloof, not at all the trembling waif rumors would tell him was the result of a weak man at war. Perhaps Castiel had, as a lord’s son, merely sat in a tent and shuffled numbers.

Shaking his head quietly to himself, Dean returned to his cards for a few minutes, keeping up appearances and lining his pockets.

By the time Dean’s eyes sought out Castiel again—as they seemed wont to keep doing, outside of his control—he caught him rising, his brow furrowed. Castiel’s shoulders were stiff, and he rose without any ounce of propriety, leaving a young woman fluttering her fan in confusion and offense.

Dean threw down his hand. “I must apologize,” he said, “my attention is not all here. Perhaps the Duke’s friend, there, can pick up my cards.”

Stepping swiftly through the tables and past jovial groups, many of which nodded or beckoned, Dean ducked his head and gave an apologetic smile to the world at large as he took his leave, going after Castiel, or at least trying. He took his eyes off the man for one moment, and suddenly his beige overcoat he’d quickly donned was gone from sight.

Frowning, Dean stepped up to the lady who’d been fluttering her fan at Castiel’s departure, who had instead latched on to Henriksen for entertainment.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Dean flashed a smile and bowed appropriately, “I beg you forgive the uncouth interruption, but I am looking for my colleague, Lord Milton.”

The gussied-up female, rather overdressed for the occasion if Dean was any judge, brought her fan back up slowly, her eyes roaming Dean’s form rather crudely before she answered.

“He excused himself and ran—quite rude, really.” She sniffed. “I only mentioned the Siege of San Sebastián; you’d think he’d be proud of having survived that.”

 _What a horrible topic of conversation,_ Dean considered. While he wasn’t the type of man that hung on every headline concerning Boney’s forays on the continent, the horror of that battle was familiar even to him. Any many who had survived it and come back with a spine a straight and a wit as sharp as Castiel’s deserved to never be reminded of it again, in Dean’s opinion. Clearly, some who had never had to live with the weight of a body on their shoulders, still found fine entertainment in theoretical battles. No wonder Castiel had departed with such haste.

“Please accept my apologies on his behalf,” Dean ground out. “We’ve had a long day. Which direction did he leave in, if I may?”

“Out to the front, I believe, Mister Winchester. I suppose he wanted some fresh air.”

 _Or some quiet from the inane prattling,_ Dean couldn’t help but think rather cattily as he bid Henriksen and his snooty acquaintance a good evening.

Politely side-stepping and working his way through the buzzing mid-evening crowd, Dean headed toward the entrance. He left the stiflingly warm room and moved out through the hallway to the steps, drawing in a relieved breath of air as he paused on the top stair of Henriksen’s finely appointed home, looking around quickly for Castiel.

Ah, there. Dean spotted the man a little ways away, standing near a low wall and facing away from him. Making sure to step heavily so that his boots announced his approach without any awkward interruption, Dean walked over.

“We’ll find more leads inside, I’d wager,” Dean noted dryly as he came up to Castiel’s side, leaning on the wall beside him. He caught Castiel’s sideways look at Dean’s mild attempt at humor, but he said nothing of it. Dean prickled pettily. Nothing worse than a humorless nobleman, he decided.

“I apologize for cutting out so quickly,” Castiel rumbled after a quiet moment, his eyes drifting across the street rather than meeting Dean’s. “I do, at least, have a small clue for us, perhaps.”

“A clue?” Dean asked, skimming over Castiel’s bad manners.

“It seems that Alfie left here early last Monday, as his ordinary self. He wanted to investigate something strange at the old church in St. Pancras. Henriksen didn’t share more than that, but perhaps that is where this...incident...truly began,” Castiel said, keeping his voice low as the occasional walker strolled down the pavements outside Henriksen’s home.

Dean’s jaw tightened slightly. Beginner’s luck was a real phenomenon, it seemed. “Well. We should investigate then. I’ll make our excuses to Henriksen.”

With that, Dean pulled up off the wall and took off, smoothing his tailcoat as he crossed back to the party. It was mildly infuriating that Castiel—with all his poor manners and inexperience—had managed to rouse up a clue where Dean had none.

Still, he should be grateful, he decided with a sigh. He pulled awkwardly at his clothes, neatening them for appearances as he headed back up the steps. At least they had somewhere to go that wouldn’t require such a fancy damned cravat.


	3. Chapter 3

Castiel held his cravat tighter around his neck as the carriage clattered along Tottenham Court Road. He’d been away from home for so long that he’d forgotten how late the winter could hold, even in the south of England. He’d been spoiled by the mild Spanish winters and baking summers.

St. Pancras was a good half-hour carriage ride from Covent Garden, and longer this late into the evening, when fashionable members of the ton were moving about the town on their nightly entertainment. Flickering gas lanterns lined the well-traveled northern route out of town, but as they turned into the new road through Paddington and left into the dark Church road, the surface became uneven and rutted.

This was the main road north—one Castiel had traveled many times on his way to and from the country, but he'd never really paid the church at St. Pancras much mind before.

As the carriage pulled to a stop, Winchester murmured something to their driver and stepped down into the street, fishing around in his pocket. He pulled out a small book of matches, and, striking one, lit a small gas lantern. He turned and headed towards the church without a backwards glance.

Castiel followed him, taking in the shadowy bulk of the church, surrounded by its churchyard crowded with gravestones. Further along the road, a two-story building housed a public house, lights still burning brightly despite the hour. Castiel could just see a sign swinging in the breeze, reading “The Adam and Eve” in the dim glow from the gas lamp above it.

Winchester had already walked over to the church’s gate, which let out a low creak as he pushed it open.

Castiel hurried over to him, asking lowly, “You really think we’ll find a clue here? This place looks abandoned.” No light shone, inside the church or out. As far as Castiel knew, very few people lived around here—the back of the churchyard was bordered by many trees—so the fact that there were so many headstones lined up was a little baffling.

“It is abandoned,” Winchester said, his boots crunching on the path as he moved towards the building. “There was a village here, hundreds of years ago. They all moved north to Kentish Town.” He walked towards the nearest gravestones and held the lamp close to it. Castiel made out a cross shape and a few letters written there, but it was mostly worn away by the passage of years.

Winchester continued, “This is a Catholic Church, though. One of the only places Catholics can be buried in town. So people keep coming here.”

“I see,” Castiel replied.

The churchyard stretched away into the night, but it was dark and silent, the breeze moving through the trees the only movement. Still, Castiel couldn’t help but feel exposed, here. Like there was a buzzing undercurrent to his pulse, like he could almost sense...something. He scanned the nearest graves, but the darkness was too close. If only the moon were closer to full!

A rattle near the church made him jump and spin around, but he breathed easier when he saw Winchester over by the church door. He hurried over, turning his back to the darkness.

Winchester huffed out a frustrated breath. “Door’s locked. I don’t see anything out of place, do you?”

Castiel frowned. Were they just going to give up that easily, after coming all this way? “No,” he answered slowly, “but I thought I…” He trailed off, realizing that if he admitted to feeling something in the graveyard, he would be buying into the unnatural society manifesto he’d been trying to ignore all day. “No, it was nothing.”

Winchester regarded him impassively, one eyebrow raised. “I need a drink.”

Castiel blinked at him in the dim light from the lantern. “I’m sorry?”

“Come on,” Winchester said, heading off towards the lich gate, creaking it open once more.

Castiel followed before the darkness swallowed him up completely. He wasn’t usually one to be frightened easily, but his hackles were up.

By comparison, the Adam and Eve public house was warm and bright, candles burning in sconces in many corners of the room. Only a few patrons sat here and there, and almost all looked over at the two of them as they entered, removing their outer coats. Castiel glanced around the room, a little self-consciously, but Winchester strode over to the bar with confidence.

“A brandy for myself and my colleague here, if you please,” he said to the barman, who looked first Winchester, and then Castiel, up and down with one eyebrow raised before turning to fetch their drinks. Winchester leaned on the bar while he waited, his eyes landing finally on Castiel. “How are you doing there, Milton?” he asked quietly. “You’ve had a considerable first day, have you not?”

Castiel frowned at him, replying, “I’m quite well, thank you.” The sudden concern from Winchester after a whole day of indifference was disconcerting. His eyes were softer, more gentle, and as Castiel’s eyes dropped to his plump lips, Winchester’s tongue peeked out to lick them. _He really is very attractive_ , Castiel’s traitorous mind reminded him.

“Are you quite sure? You looked as though you might soil your trousers back there in the graveyard.” Winchester’s smirk washed away any pretence of concern.

Castiel scowled as his buoyant feelings dropped like a stone. Winchester may be pretty, but he was the most infuriating man Castiel had ever met.

“It has been quite a first day,” he retorted, “but nothing I cannot handle. The days on the march in Catalonia were relentless.”

The barkeep returned with their drinks, his eyes on Castiel. “Beg pardon, sir, but you were in Spain?”

“I was until very recently, yes,” Castiel replied, warily. Why did everyone want to know about the war tonight?

The barkeeper looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry to be askin’ this, but letters have dried up. My son, he’d be a few years younger ‘n you, I imagine. His name’s Justin. Justin Baker. Last I heard from him he was in Arapiles.”

Castiel shook his head, sadly. “I don’t know him, I’m sorry. But now that Bonaparte has been defeated in Paris, the men are expected to return home. I hope you’ll see your son very soon.”

The man nodded, the light of hope in his eyes. “Thank you, sir. I hope so as well. It’s so quiet around here without the boys—most drama we manage is the occasional fae light in the woods behind the church, ‘ere.”

“Fae light?” Winchester interrupted, leaning forward with interest.

“Uh, yes, sir. The lights come out of the woods and fly around the yard, then are gone by morning. Sometimes the missus leaves milk out for them, like in the old times.” He grinned indulgently, but Winchester pressed on.

“When did you last see the lights, man? Think carefully.”

The barkeep stepped back, surprise clear on his face. “Uh, I suppose it was only a few nights ago, sir. Perhaps Monday?”

Winchester threw back the remainder of his brandy, then fished a few coins from his pocket. Throwing them down on the bar, he turned to Castiel. “Come with me, Milton.”

Castiel stared at him as he headed for the door. Castiel’s own brandy glass was still nearly untouched in his hand.

He turned back to the barkeep and shrugged, saying, “My apologies. Men of Letters business,” and hurried after Winchester, leaving the glass on the bar behind him.

Outside, the clouds had cleared somewhat and the remainder were scudding across a bright moon, high in the sky. Castiel looked back towards the church and saw Winchester, lit lantern back in his hand, heading into the church yard once again.

Hurrying to catch up, he threw his overcoat back on and stepped carefully in the dim light cast across the headstones. Now that Castiel was looking, there were lights in the trees behind the church—but they flashed like fireflies. Surely that couldn’t be what the barkeeper was referring to.

“Winchester! Slow down, damn it,” Castiel huffed as his colleague continued to stride away. “What the devil are these fae lights, anyway?”

Winchester stopped, scanning the tree line while he waited for Castiel to catch up. “Did Bobby not tell you about the fae? They’re dangerous creatures—usually only come out at certain times of year, but this is too early for them. Those are fireflies, not fae.”

Castiel rolled his eyes in the darkness. “Yes, I know they are fireflies, but—”

“Hush,” Winchester interrupted, peering into the shadows under the trees.

“I beg your pardon, I’m merely asking you for—”

Winchester held up a hand, silencing him just as he heard a crunching sound a short distance away. It could only be a footstep, and he drew in a gasp as a figure appeared from behind a tall grave.

“Hey, you there,” Winchester called. “What is your business here?”

The man didn’t say anything, but shuffled towards them with an odd gait. Castiel’s skin prickled as he recalled the reports of those who’d seen Alfie last night, dragging his feet through Covent Garden.

“Wait, Sinclair?” Winchester asked, peering at the man as he reached the limit of the lantern’s light. “Man, I am pleased to see you. Did Singer send you? We need a bit of solid experience on this one, that’s for sure.”

Castiel stared with horror at the look on the man’s face—blank and ice-cold. “Uh, Winchester?” he said, grabbing Winchester’s shoulder. “I don’t think he’s—“

The man—Sinclair—lunged, hands outstretched towards Winchester’s throat. Winchester shouted, “What—?” But Sinclair’s throttle cut him off as they crashed to the ground. The lantern flew a few feet away but didn’t go out, instead casting a dim glow over the two men wrestling on the ground.

Castiel tried to grab Sinclair by the coat to pull him away from Winchester, but the man lashed out, kicking Castiel’s knee hard and sending him crashing to the ground as well, grunting at the fire in his joint.

Winchester managed to throw Sinclair sideways, but the man rolled and scuttled to his feet, surprisingly agile. Castiel winced as he got to his own feet, stumbling after Sinclair as he started to run for the cover of the trees. The shuffling run was back, and it allowed Castiel to easily catch him around the waist and bring him crashing to the ground again, Sinclair’s forehead smacking on a gravestone under him. The man let out an unnatural growling noise and bucked his hips back, throwing Castiel off him, and he pounced onto Castiel, pinning him onto his back.

Castiel panted hard as he squinted up at the man in the dim moonlight. There was an odd smell to him, faint decay and something rotten that reminded him again of Alfie’s corpse that morning, and he recoiled in horror as the man leaned down and sniffed at him. Baring his teeth in a snarl, Castiel was about to attempt to throw some kind of a punch, when Sinclair arched up again and fell to the side.

Winchester stood over him, a short, serrated knife in his hand. He jumped on Sinclair, pinning him to the ground again and holding the knife close to his throat. “Tell us who you are and what you’ve done with Sinclair.”

The man who was once Sinclair merely grunted and tried to butt his forehead into Winchester’s, but he pulled his head back to avoid it and slammed Sinclair back into the ground. As Castiel sat up, dazed, he could see that Sinclair now had a dark gash on his forehead, but no blood ran down his face.

“Tell me!” Winchester growled, allowing the knife to touch the man’s throat again.

Sinclair began to thrash about, nearly throwing Winchester off again, but as Castiel clambered to his feet to try to intervene, he saw Winchester flip the knife and plunge it into Sinclair’s chest. A flickering light seemed to shine from under Sinclair’s skin, and his body jerked a few times and fell slack.

Winchester sat on the man’s legs, panting for a few moments, before he pulled the knife free of Sinclair’s body with a wet, sickening sound. He looked up at Castiel, who was frozen in place.

Trying to will his heart to slow was useless—his blood was up. He felt as though he would punch anyone who came near him. He needed to ride to work it off, as he had occasionally done abroad after a battle when his horse was as agitated as he was, but at the dead of night and this far from home, he’d have to try to get himself under control without a beast between his legs. His ears roared, the thunder of the battlefield, men’s screams, the smell of blood, of shit...

“Milton?” a voice sounded in his left ear. “Milton!” A hand on his shoulder shook him and he looked around, startled. Winchester stood next to him, staring at him. “Come on, we need to get the canvas out of the carriage. Let’s get him back to headquarters.”

Castiel nodded, looking down again at the dim shape of the dead man. He took a deep breath, the cool night air biting into his lungs.

The lantern light bobbed and flickered as Winchester picked it up from its resting place on the grass, and he made sure Castiel was following him before he turned to head back towards where the carriage had waited for them all this time.

“What happened to him?” Castiel croaked out.

“Apart from a knife to the chest?” Winchester asked, wryly. “Best guess is a demon. But I need to speak with Bobby, and probably Sam.”

Castiel nodded, even though Winchester probably couldn’t see it in the dark. So, it was real. At least, some of it. He shuddered, the night air finally making its way under his skin as he tried, unsuccessfully, to let go of his tension.

“That knife,” he asked Dean, and they both glanced down to the blood-stained blade still in Dean’s hand. “He sparked under the skin…” he began, trailing off with another shudder.

Dean nodded, bending down to wipe the blade off onto the dew-damp grass. “It’s an ancient blade. Bobby gave it to me a while ago—it was once my father’s, he said. I usually use it to kill ghouls and werewolves—seems it also works on demons.”

They rolled Sinclair’s body onto the canvas and lugged it over and into the back of the cart. The driver, an old grump of a man that Winchester had introduced earlier as Dawkins, didn’t blink as the cargo was loaded up, but clicked his tongue and set the horses moving as soon as Winchester requested they be taken back to Sackville Street.

Castiel sat back on the wooden seat, trying not to think about the corpse jostling along behind them, but Winchester had other plans, evidently.

“Sinclair,” he said, shaking his head. “Such a shame.”

“Did you know him well?” Castiel asked, hoping that talking about the man in life might banish the sight of him launching at Winchester from behind his eyes.

Winchester glanced at Castiel, his face barely visible in the dark between lamps. He spoke quietly, just loud enough to be heard over the clatter of the carriage wheels. “Well enough to know that he had some...less savoury methods of working cases. Dabbled in incantations, summoned spirits, that kind of thing.” He shook his head again, staring out into the darkness of the city. “I wonder what he got mixed up in this time.”

Castiel looked back out his own side of the carriage at the passing buildings, wondering if the people sleeping there knew such strange things were afoot in their city. He wished them a sound night’s sleep, and hoped they would never find out.

Bespattered and splotched, Dean jumped straight down from the carriage step and onto Sackville Street, where the Men of Letters’ private apartments were situated. Much like a fine boarding house in the city, the apartments gave each member a home-away-from-home where they could reside while in London. Leaving the carriage behind, Dean gave little care for the filthy mud heaped up against the curb as it squelched underfoot, as he was already encased with graveyard dirt, blood, and other even less savory fluids. The light of the day was many hours past, and so Dean navigated his way up the steps of number twelve by the gas lanterns that lined the exterior of the building.

“Come along, man,” he called back to Castiel. “Let’s get ourselves cleaned up. Dawkins, when my brother comes, take him and poor ol’ Sinclair to headquarters.”

Castiel stepped down behind Dean, picking his way across the pavement rather more primly than Dean had. “Do Lettersmen often end their days smelling like graveyards?” he asked, so low that Dean barely caught it.

“More frequently than you’d think, unfortunately,” Dean admitted. With a few quiet words to the porter who stood waiting at the front door for them, Dean arranged for Bobby to be alerted to their return, and his brother awoken. Sam wouldn’t be best pleased, but if he insisted on taking to bed early so that he could take early morning walks, then on occasion this would happen. Unfortunately, he’d need to get to the body before it decayed even further, so he’d likely be up all night compiling reports while Dean and Castiel slept off their endeavors.

And Sam would probably love every minute of it. Dean’s brother was a strange fellow like that, at times.

As they moved within the building, hushed and quiet at the late hour, Castiel fell into step beside Dean. The silence between them wasn’t tense, exactly, but Dean knew he needed to say something.

“Luckily for us, the Men of Letters had fairly luxurious bathrooms put in this place,” he said, guiding Castiel down one of the long residential corridors. That certainly wasn’t what he wanted to say, but some conversation was better than none. “It’s a small perk, but when you arrive back from a case covered in the guts of some supernatural bastard, it helps.”

“Ahh,” said Castiel, as if uncertain quite how to respond.

Dean continued on until the hallway turned a slight right, then continued on to the fairly spacious, barracks-style bathroom. There was a smaller, tucked away water closet for the few female staff that tended to the agents based in Sackville Street, but as the majority of the Men of Letters were—as titled—men, this one area served them all.

“This is quite modern,” Castiel observed as they stepped inside.

Dean merely nodded. With up-to-date water closets and the new patented showerbaths, the open, tiled space was certainly that. “The building was a gift from Queen Charlotte, years back, just like the headquarters itself,” he explained, beginning to untuck his cravat. “From what I understand, it was bequeathed to the Men of Letters along with a sizeable yearly allowance for maintenance and improvement.”

Castiel nodded, giving a small hum to show he’d heard, as he sat down on a bench near the door to begin easing off his dirt-packed boots.

The young valet, Andrews, stepped forward to assist Dean with his jacket, but Dean waved him away. “We can handle our own dress, I’m sure. I’d rather you go to our rooms and fetch us each a clean set, if you will. Everything we have will certainly need to be sent to the laundry.”

“Yes, Mister Winchester,” the valet responded, bowing to them both in turn. “And Lord Milton, of course.”

Dean observed Castiel biting back an odd expression before he managed a polite smile. Once Andrews had departed, Dean couldn’t help but smirk over at Castiel as he began to unbutton his waistcoat. “You’re still not quite used to that, I see.”

“To what?” Castiel asked, his eyes on the wall ahead of him, tugging his cravat clear of his clothes with swift, practiced movements.

“Lord. The title.”

“It’s been less than two weeks,” Castiel said. “Give a man a chance.”

“One of the few perks to being an untitled gent,” Dean said with an open grin. “I’ll never be more than ‘Mister Winchester,’ to anyone.”

Dropping his coat, waistcoat, and shirt onto the bench for the valet to gather on his return, Dean looked across at Castiel—for only the briefest of moments before he wished he hadn’t. His eyes were met with more tanned, smooth acreage than he’d seen even in the tattoo parlor. Castiel’s wide, muscled shoulders were on full display, the large inking down his spine dark in the dim light. He already had the trusses of his breeches open, his boots off, and his toes peeking out bare beneath fabric.

Clearing his throat, Dean averted his eyes swiftly to the wall off to the side. It was perfectly normal for colleagues to bathe here, to stand and chat, even discuss their newest case while they cleaned off the last. Nothing improper about it, being all men, and all of similar class at that. But Dean...well, his wandering eyes he tried to keep to himself, just in case. There were certain tells, certain symbols and secrets and places that gave men with inclinations like Dean’s a safe way of telling when they were in similar company. But Dean was no fool; at work, he kept his eyes ahead, on the tile, and encouraged the pretty young women that swarmed about him like flies.

Not that he’d _never_ dallied, here. But it was a rare and extremely cautious event.

“Make sure you don’t get that fresh tattoo wet,” Dean blurted out, the silence getting to him as he heard the rustle of fabric indicating Castiel’s breeches hitting tile.

“It appears well bound,” Castiel mused, his voice slightly muffled as if peering down at his own chest. “I think it will be fine to showerbathe with it. I won’t soak...I’m rather tired, anyway, and I assume we’ll have to head straight to your Mister Singer early in the morning.”

“Correct,” Dean said, kicking off the rest of his own clothes and moving across the room to the bathing area. “We should sleep as best we can, and then after breakfast we need to check in with Bobby and that body. I have a hunch we’ll find both of those in my brother Sam’s lab. Bobby’s never been one to keep his fingers out...gets bored of the paperwork, I think.”

Dean grabbed a chunk of tallow soap from the shelving at the side and moved toward one of the copper shower tubs, arranged in a line down the tiled wall. He picked one off to one side, not right in the middle, putting a little space between himself and Castiel. Dean stepped inside the tub at the base, where the pump handle was, and positioned himself under the sprayer. He bent over forward, beginning to pump the water, and when he straightened back up he realized that Castiel had strolled straight over to the tub next to his own.

Of course.

Dean arranged his features placidly, trying not to appear awkward. _Because this isn’t awkward,_ Dean chastised himself. _It’s perfectly normal! Keep up appearances, or Lud knows what Castiel will think._

Not that Castiel would be wrong, of course, but Dean could do without his judgment on top of everything else.

Unable to help himself, conscious of it even if Castiel thought nothing about it, Dean angled himself slightly away from Castiel, turning just enough that the man would mostly see only back and buttocks while Dean soaped himself up. As the freshly pumped water began to cascade down to trickle away the soap, Dean cleared his throat and then his mind, forcing out what he’d been thinking since the graveyard.

“You did well, back at St. Pancras.”

Dean didn’t trust himself enough to look at Castiel’s face (the man was unholy easy on the eyes, and Dean wasn’t about to put himself in a precarious position, exposed as he was) but even so, he could hear the surprise in Castiel’s voice at his mild praise as he said, “Thank you, Dean.”

It made him feel like a bit of a gollumpus, actually. Yes, Castiel was stoic. A little aloof. But Dean knew, deep down, that his poor reception of Castiel had little to do with the man himself. And that wasn’t fair. But, Dean was also a prideful and petty man on occasion, and he couldn’t let go of his misgivings just yet. What he did allow was a little more truth.

“Honestly, in the light, I didn’t catch the change in Sinclair. If you hadn’t tried to alert me when you did, the fight may not have gone so well. So...thank you, Castiel.”

Bracing himself, Dean took a chance to look back at Castiel, in his own showerbath behind him. He intended to give him only a grateful look and smile of appreciation, eyes kept strictly above collarbone, but even that, it seemed, was to be a torture. The beautiful lord stood with his face upturned into the water, trickles writing such elegant poetry across his skin that Dean craved, desperately, to collect them with his tongue to recite later. Soft bubbles of soap ran in streaks from his fingertips as he rubbed them through his stubble...and Dean was gone, staring, his resolve for a quick glance gone south with the dirty water.

Castiel’s eyes lowering to meet his helped nothing. The way their stare held for a long moment, even less.

But eventually, Dean sheared his gaze away from Castiel’s smooth, gleaming skin and buried it in the corner of the wall, amongst the tiles, willing his face to lessen from puce to red to pink.

Thank God, the only thing Castiel said was a gruff, rasping, “You’re welcome, Dean.”

Dean made quick work of the rest of his toilette, scrubbing off the blood and tar-like graveyard dirt that had caked itself into his clothes and skin during the fight. It smelled musty and dead, and Dean was incredibly glad to replace it with the scent of simple soap.

When the tepid water was done trickling across his shoulders, Dean shook himself like a hound and hopped out of the base of the showerbath, reaching for one of the towels that were stocked ready, folded on the shelf nearby with the soap. Dean wrapped a towel about himself. He was no prude; in different circumstances, Dean was very comfortable with showing any part of his body to a handsome man like Castiel. But being around each other like this, with Castiel innocent of Dean’s base thoughts, felt almost dishonest.

Dean walked across to the long bench on the wall near the entrance, where they had both undressed. Determined to keep his eyes down, Dean was glad that Andrews appeared to have nipped in while they were bathing and left neatly pressed clothes for them both in place of their dirty ones.

“Dean,” Castiel’s voice came from over by the showers as Dean pulled on his clothing. “Would it be alright if I asked you to call for me in the morning, before you head over to Great Queen Street?”

Clearing his throat, Dean only intended to look up quickly to answer, of course. But Castiel was making his way out of the water and getting himself a towel as he spoke. Dean’s throat clicked, and he prayed to anyone who might listen that Castiel didn’t hear it. His eyes caught on the man’s taut stomach and fine, muscled thighs. He pulled one of the white towels across his middle—Dean would have thought it a self-conscious action, if the man hadn’t been so uncommonly good looking—and as Dean’s eyes carried on upward, their gazes met once more.

There was a pause—a weighty thing, more than a breath or a beat—something keeping their eyes locked and their voices mute for a long moment, until Castiel regained command of his vocal cords.

“I, uh”—Castiel cleared his throat forcibly, much as Dean had—“I’m not certain I remember the exact directions to where your brother will be, is all.”

“Of course,” Dean bit out a little too quickly. His fingers seemed too full of his shirt’s laces, and he fumbled them repeatedly. “No problem, not at all. Just find me at breakfast, here, and we can travel together.”

Then, to spare himself further humiliation (because Castiel must, surely, have been able to name Dean’s oddness by now), Dean pushed up off the bench and strode quickly from the room.

He had no boots; he had not bid Castiel a good night.

Hoping no one would see either his red cheeks or his bare toes, Dean hastened straight for his bedchamber.

Dean told himself that his untoward thoughts about the handsome Lord Milton would cease once he calmed down, but of course, that wasn’t to be. Sleep, mercifully, came quickly and soon soothed him of his worries.

An overreaction, he’d convinced himself by the time he had his eggs on his plate the next morning in Sackville Street’s breakfast hall. The gazes they’d shared were in Dean’s imagination, surely. Castiel, the fine Lord Milton, would never be so improper. He was determined not to mention it and to carry on as they’d been before.

Well, he allowed, perhaps a little more pleasant than before. Castiel had done him well in the graveyard the night prior and he wasn’t such a terrible sort after all, it seemed.

“Good morning, Dean.” Castiel’s voice came from Dean’s left. Dean turned in his seat, pushing his empty plate away from him to mirror Castiel’s deep nod of greeting. “Are you ready to head to headquarters?”

“Yes, indeed, Castiel. The quicker the better, to keep Bobby happy.”

Small smiles were exchanged, and something in Dean’s chest settled. He really hadn’t made a fool of himself, he decided. Or at least, not as much as he worried.

The carriage ride to 31 Great Queen Street was swift, and both men wasted little time when they alighted, striding onward into the headquarters and on down to the laboratories without hesitation. By the time they had reached the one his brother worked out of, Dean could already hear Bobby’s voice booming from within.

“It’s a bit of good luck, and I shan’t look a gift horse in the mouth,” Bobby said.

“Seems wise,” Sam agreed. “I’m sure Dean will be chomping at the bit to dig a bit further—Ahh, Dean. Good morning.”

The laboratory was slightly dim. It made Dean think of a cave, in the basement as it was, but Sam was always content here, working out his theories and practicing his magics. Tall shelves covered the back walls; there were benches of experiments and a long table for the investigation of the day, as well as a slim door that led into the labs’ shared storage facilities. It smelled vaguely of sulfur, oil, and the sweet hair pomade Sam pretended he didn’t use.

“Morning, Sam, Bobby.” Dean slid his hat off to bow to them both before stepping immediately up to the table. “Poor ol’ Cuthbert isn’t looking too fresh, is he?”

“Mister Singer, Mister Winchester,” Castiel inclined his head behind Dean, giving his own much more proper greetings. “I trust you slept well.”

“Not at all, in fact,” Sam said with a surprisingly cheerful grin. “Sinclair here had tales to tell.”

“Aye,” Bobby rumbled, waving a thick card between his fingers. It was a gilt-edged calling card, neat and common and—to their ends—very valuable.

“From Sinclair, is that?” Dean said straight away, reaching to take the card from Bobby and peer down at it. “A calling card—for Balthazar Roche’s club, over on St. James Street. Interesting. Not one I know.”

From next to him, peering over Dean’s shoulder from uncomfortably close (or perhaps, too-comfortably close), Castiel frowned slightly. “The name is somewhat familiar, though I can’t currently recall why that would be. I didn’t used to come to London much myself, so I don’t know why I would recognize it. Perhaps my brother was a member?”

Dean shrugged lightly, passing the card back to his uncle. “Maybe he was. No matter. It’ll probably come back to you,” he said. “Those kinds of things usually do.”

“Doesn’t matter anyway; I can get you in,” Bobby rumbled, bringing Dean’s attention back from where it had started to drift to his left, where Castiel still stood. “I know someone, a friend of a friend. I should be able to get you two in without much trouble.”

“Us two?” Castiel asked, his hands folded politely behind his back. He rocked forward on his toes, an eyebrow lofting in question.

“Yes, you two,” Bobby grumbled. “It’s a gentleman’s club, no reason for anyone else to go. This is your case, boys, so I expect you to solve it. And I’m surely not going to be suiting up and going.”

“Not enough young ladies for you, Bobby?” Sam quipped, winking across at his uncle.

Castiel blinked a few times, and Dean recalled that he probably was still not quite comfortable being quite so casual with their superior. He elbowed the lord gently, murmuring, “Sam and I played on Bobby’s rug as children. I guarantee you, if we offend him, he’ll have no qualms about saying it.”

Bobby snorted. “I’ve got more than enough flighty girls to handle looking after the women’s division of the Letters,” he said. “And a few of the men, too, for that matter.”

Sam chuckled, already bent back over Sinclair’s prone form, and Bobby turned to Dean, raising his bushy eyebrow at his obvious whisper.

“And no qualms about clipping your ear, either,” Bobby pointed out, “no matter how monstrously tall you plan to grow.”

“I am the perfect height,” Dean retorted childishly. “It’s Sam who needs chopping off at the knees.”

Shaking his head, Bobby moved away from them. Before he took the last step out of the door, he turned, pointing firmly between Dean and Castiel. “You two gentlemen—help young Samuel, here. Tell him everything you recall of what happened in the graveyard. Assist him as he needs, and once the body is to be taken to the morgue—you two take it, you understand? No one else is to deal with these remains until we know what is happening.”

“Yes, Sir,” Dean said, inclining his head politely. Bobby had spoken with his no-nonsense voice, and even Dean didn’t mess with that.

“Quite right, Mister Singer,” Castiel agreed, dipping his head in turn.

“And make sure you’re both ready for the carriage to pick you up for Balthazar’s club after dinner. It won’t do to be late. Settle in, see if any clues present themselves—but no interrogations. I want subtlety, here, boys. We’re not ruining our reputation in a place like Balthazar Roche’s establishment. I’d rather you take time to become fixtures there; Sinclair and Alfie aren’t getting any deader, after all. And the chances are that Sinclair here was mixed up in something more than just the case he was investigating with Michael—God rest his soul—before he got himself killed, too.”

Dean blinked at him. “Sinclair was paired with Michael?”

“Aye,” Bobby replied with a nod. “They were looking into the recent disappearances about the city, and it seems they both got a little too close to the truth, Perhaps Johnston, too. None of them sent me any reports.” He looked between Dean and Castiel, his face grave. “Find out what the matter is, gentlemen. And watch your backs.”

Dean grimaced, sharing an uneasy look with Castiel. “Yes, Bobby.”

This case was growing bigger by the day, it seemed, and Dean wasn’t sure how he felt about that.

Balthazar Roche’s club was housed in a newer building along St. James Street, just down from White’s. Castiel had only visited that benighted place once before, when he attended with Michael the last time he’d been in London before the war, and never wished to set foot in the door again, filled as it was with wealthy, spoiled brats and their Tory ideals. Balthazar's place, however, was a newer club and a fresh experience.

Traffic was plentiful around the area, as large groups in carriages headed for Almack’s Assembly Rooms just around the corner, and gentlemen made their way to various clubs along the street for their evening’s entertainment.

As the carriage crawled forward, Castiel adjusted his waistcoat for perhaps the hundredth time and wondered if it might have been faster to walk from Great Queen Street.

He felt like a trussed pig in Michael’s clothes—thankfully he’d always been almost exactly of a size with his older brother, whose fine suits and shoes were still kept within his London apartment. But it seemed that his years of riding and hard labor at war had broadened Castiel’s shoulders, as well as his thighs—Michael’s clothes were now a little tight. He was sure that the fine meals served at the Men of Letters' dining rooms would also be ruining the fit of Michael’s suits if he didn’t get a chance to get out and move once in a while, but new clothes would have to wait until this case calmed down, at least. For now, he suffered in a fine dark brown brocade waistcoat and a deep blue tailcoat, his white silk cravat making him feel like a peacock.

Chancing a look across at Dean, he held in a smirk—his colleague looked similarly uncomfortable, but he did look uncommonly fine in a burgundy waistcoat under his black tailcoat. The valet the men on their level shared, Andrews, had coiffed Castiel’s hair into the fashionable curls across his forehead, but Dean’s was too short for such a style. Instead it was combed flat, parted on one side. It suited him, Castiel thought, but perhaps he preferred it when it was less laden with pomade, and instead wet from the shower, as it had been last night.

The heat rose in his cheeks just as Dean glanced towards him, a question in his eyes. He looked away quickly, casting aside such inappropriate thoughts.

“Something on my face, Milton?” Dean asked, his smirk firmly in place when Castiel looked back towards him.

“No, not at all, I—” He stopped, taking a breath to calm his flustered state. “I was merely thinking I need to visit a tailor before long, and admiring your coat. Who do you see?”

Dean snorted indelicately and adjusted his coat, running his white-gloved hands down the fabric and preening slightly. _Insufferable man_ , Castiel thought, but he was surprised to find his ire had lost some of its heat.

They filled the rest of the wait with idle chatter about the tailoring options, including a few who were willing to visit the Men of Letters apartments themselves. When finally they rolled to a stop outside the club and alighted into the street, the many carriages that had passed through already had churned the dirt into a muddy mess after the afternoon's rain.

“Damn these infernal pumps,” Dean lamented, looking down at his muddy shoes. “Whatever was wrong with wearing boots for evening functions?”

Castiel lifted a brow, amused, but still not willing to give Dean the pleasure of knowing. He had his own boots on, the longer-style trousers, in his opinion, vastly more comfortable than calf-length pantaloons and stockings that Dean wore.

The building before them was lit up with gas lamps outside, and every window seemed filled with candles or oil lamps. The foyer was bustling enough with gentlemen from all over the city, but as they were shown through to the gaming and drinking spaces upstairs, the air became close and the crowds closer.

Castiel and Dean stood in the entrance to a large space with a high, beamed ceiling. Gas lamps hung above them and candle sconces on the walls around the room cast light on the crowds below.

A tall, rather skinny gentleman hurried over and hailed Dean, sticking out his hand to be shook. “Dean! How do you do, my friend?”

“Garth, good evening to you,” Dean replied with rather less vigor, shaking Garth’s hand. He didn’t seem overjoyed to see this man, but smiled anyway. “Allow me to introduce my colleague, Lord Castiel Milton. Lord Milton, Mister Garth Fitzgerald.”

Garth turned his full attention to Castiel, his wide eyes smiling. He had such a firm handshake, Castiel was concerned for his own fingers. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir,” he said. “Come, I’ll introduce you to Monsieur Roche.”

Without further ado, he turned and headed out into the room, leaving Dean and Castiel to follow. As they went, Dean leaned in close to Castiel’s ear, murmuring, “Garth’s one of ours, Bobby’s ‘man on the inside’.”

Castiel nodded, trying to ignore the shiver that traveled down his spine at Dean’s warm breath against his ear.

Garth led them towards a covered table across the room serving as the bar. A very tall man stood nearby, surrounded by other gentlemen listening intently to him speak loudly in a strong French accent.

“Of course Napoléon is not finished. _Le petit caporal_ is biding his time before he rides back into the fray, _absolument_.” The man waved a glass of claret around, obviously well into his cups already. At the mention of the war, Castiel’s ears perked up. It had been some days since he’d had a chance to read the papers and any news would be welcome.

“ _Excusez-moi, Monsieur_ ,” Garth said, surprising Castiel with both his boldness and his perfect French. “May I introduce two new friends and prospective members?” Indicating each of them in turn, he introduced them.

Balthazar shook Dean’s hand thoughtfully. “I’ve heard tales of your social adventures, Monsieur Winchester. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

As Dean nodded and murmured, “Likewise, Sir,” the Frenchman turned to Castiel.

“And the new Lord Milton, _mes sincères condoléances_. I knew your brother—he was a fine gentleman.” Balthazar appeared sorry to hear of Michael’s passing, but something had flashed across his face as he’d spoken—something that Castiel only barely caught, and had no idea what it might mean. Guilt, perhaps? Triumph? Castiel wasn’t sure, but he suddenly found himself wanting to keep a close eye on this Frenchman. And now he recalled Michael speaking of this man, but what had he told Castiel of him? He couldn't remember that.

Balthazar turned to indicate the bar behind him. “Please, 'elp yourself to a drink. The rum punch is particularly fine this evening.”

Castiel nodded his thanks as Dean did the same, and they moved to take glasses of punch that Garth had already poured for them. Dean took one sip and declared, “I shall be moving to the claret after this.”

Castiel chuckled—he thought it tasted pleasant. The first glass went down quickly in the warm room, as the two of them stood near the table, gazing around. Could there be someone here connected to the demons and their appearance? There certainly didn’t seem to be any actual walking corpses in the room, unless the creatures were doing a much better job of keeping their vessels in working order.

Dean finished his drink first and refilled his glass with punch, despite his earlier statement, then refilled Castiel’s when he drained the last of it. “Shall we take a seat?” Dean asked.

Castiel glanced around the packed room again. “Where?”

Dean nodded over towards the back of the parlor, near where several gaming tables were set up, their occupants already deep in games of Vingt-et-un and rolling dice at Hazard. Several armchairs were set around a lit fireplace beyond the tables, two of them unoccupied when Dean led the way over to them.

They both sat comfortably on the soft chairs, set close enough together that Castiel’s knee brushed Dean’s as they sat. He snatched his leg away, acutely aware of the impropriety.

Dean bent his head closer to Castiel as he said, “So, have you seen anything unusual so far?”

“Other than a Frenchman holding court with a crowd of English gentlemen?” Castiel asked, one brow raised.

Dean blinked at him, then chuckled. “Keep your voice down, man. This is his club, after all!”

“Oh, of course,” Castiel muttered, glancing around. The punch seemed to be rather more potent than he had expected.

Dean gazed over towards Balthazar thoughtfully. “He cannot be a spy, surely. Way too overt. Although maybe it’s the perfect cover...”

“That’s not what we’re here for, Dean,” Castiel said, glancing at the gaming table nearest them. “Perhaps we should split up again, ask around about Sinclair.”

Dean looked around at the gamers with distaste. “I’m not overly interested in this crowd, if I’m honest. I’m not one for gambling these days, unless I’m on the hustle. I’d rather sit by a fire and have a good conversation.” His eyes flicked back to Castiel’s and they locked gazes for a few moments, Castiel thinking that he’d rather sit here with Dean as well.

He pushed himself to say something to break the awkwardness. "And do you do that often? Hustling, I mean," Castiel hurried to correct himself. He was sure Dean would spend plenty of time sitting by fires conversing—it seemed rude to suggest otherwise.

Dean's cheeks colored in a way that made Castiel's face also feel warm. "Not anymore. In my younger days I gambled rather more than I should have, but now…the Letters look after us."

"And Mister Singer?" Castiel asked, then cursed himself internally for being nosy.

But Dean was happy to talk, it seemed. "Bobby has always looked after us since we moved to London a few years ago—brought us into the Letters. Sam and I…he's like our second father, almost."

Castiel nodded. He'd guessed Singer had a history with the Winchesters beyond mere blood, but to have been a sponsor was a special relationship indeed.

Dean looked down suddenly, then took a long sip of his drink. “So, uh, what did you do before? Before the war, I mean? When Michael was Lord Milton?”

Castiel considered how much to tell Dean, but the man had seen his tattoos, now. Twice, in fact. And had been in a fluster on both occasions, he reminded himself. In any case, there was no reason to hide.

"Before the war? My brother was away in London a lot. The last time I saw him, my sister and I passed through here on our pilgrimage to the Holy Land. I saw...the most amazing things on that journey. But we returned through Italy and France and saw that trouble was brewing with our own eyes. Once I got home again, I decided to enlist.”

Dean’s eyes were wide. “You went all the way to Jerusalem?”

Castiel nodded, and he was about to continue, but a voice from across at one of the gaming tables called out, “Winchester?”

They both looked over to where the voice came from, and Castiel saw a young man standing there, grinning broadly. Dean stood, heading towards the man without a backwards glance, leaving Castiel sitting awkwardly on his own.

“Aaron!” Dean said, obviously delighted to see this man. They wrapped each other in a warm embrace and patted each other's backs, then Dean glanced back to beckon Castiel over. “Come on, Cas. Mister Aaron Bass, this is my colleague, Lord Milton.”

Aaron eyed Castiel up and down as he approached, which made Castiel have to resist narrowing his eyes at the man, but he held it in and nodded a greeting.

Aaron turned back to Dean. “Will you play? We need an extra hand.”

Dean nodded and sat close beside Aaron, leaving a chair on the other side of himself for Castiel where he could observe the game.

While the cards were dealt, Dean and Aaron discussed animatedly how long it had been since they’d seen each other. It seemed Aaron had been away on business, and Castiel was struck by the familiar way he spoke with Dean. The way he leaned in close, the way he touched Dean’s arm.

After only a few minutes, Castiel was almost certain that there had been something more between the two men in the past, and he found, to his shock, that he didn’t like the idea. What on Earth had gotten into him?

It wasn’t as though the idea of two men having an intimate relationship was a new or repulsive idea for Castiel—he’d been having thoughts of doing the same for much of his life. His relations had tried to set him up for marriage, but he found no women that interested him in that way. He’d spent the rest of his adult life trying to suppress his inclinations, even though he knew some men, especially in gentlemen’s clubs such as these, were able to find each other and pursue actual relationships, even if deeply closeted outside the club’s confines.

Dean was almost certainly one of those—If he hadn’t been sure of that before their shared showerbath the previous evening, Castiel was sure now, seeing him with Aaron.

He supposed the question now was what he wanted to do about it. He certainly found Dean physically attractive, but as professional colleagues, he couldn’t possibly try to pursue anything like that. No, best to keep his distance. He wouldn’t risk his position here, not now that he was starting to see just what his brother had been dealing with for all these years since their father had died.

He turned away from Dean and Aaron and forced himself to listen in to the conversation at the other end of the table. One of the gentlemen was describing his night at the assembly rooms.

“Oh yes, plenty of fine young ladies. Not that I was looking, eh?” He nudged the man next to him, laughing. “That Miss Lisa Braeden, she’s a looker. Winchester, you’re the bachelor around here! Take note, man.”

Dean looked over, distracted from his conversation with Aaron. “Sure, sure,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. Did Dean know everyone in town?

The man across the table continued his story. “I was lucky, though. I managed to avoid having to dance with Lady Donn. Seems her time of mourning is over, so I believe she’s trying to dance with every gentleman to attempt to get someone to take her in. She’s inexhaustible—danced all night!”

“Lady Donn?” Castiel asked the man sitting next to him on his other side. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her.”

The man nodded. “Oh yes, Abigail, Lady Donn. Her husband, Frederick, the Earl of Donn, died in the war quite a few years ago, now. Once you’re cornered, all she does is to complain about how much she hates everything, especially the French.”

There were laughs around the table, and Castiel added, “How will I know her to avoid her?”

The man next to him said, “Oh, you’ll know her. She has bright red hair, usually wears a lace cap and a huge, ugly red pendant. You’re not unmarried at your age though, surely, m’lord?”

Castiel nodded, grimacing. He hated when people started questioning his bachelorhood. “I’ve only just returned from the peninsula.”

The man gave him a sympathetic look. "Lady Donn will be after you, then.”

“I don't know that I've ever heard Lady Donn to ever be in a pleasant mood," another man around the table said, drawing more guffaws.

"Oh no, she was once," Aaron said, his face becoming serious. "Before her husband went to war. Before he was killed in the Battle of Salamanca."

"Oh, is that right? God rest his soul."

Murmurs of agreement around the table.

After the next hand, someone said, "I heard he wasn't killed in the battle itself, though. He was taken prisoner and starved to death. Our boys couldn't get in to free him. Poor lady took it hard—hasn't been quite right since."

Murmurs of sympathy passed around the table next, but Castiel barely heard them. The mention of a prisoner of war echoed in his mind. Images played behind his eyes as he stared at the green fabric on the gaming table.

Prisoners being dragged away, or shot in the streets. All the people, the innocents, he couldn't save.

That was the only time he ever allowed himself to let go, on particularly horrible days. He and another young officer would pleasure each other hurriedly, stealing kisses before they curled up together to stay warm. There had been no romance to it, merely a way to switch off the horrors they'd witnessed.

The roaring in his ears was back. He tried to take longer, deeper breaths to calm himself, but it was no use. The heat of the room and the press of people and he was going to have to—

A warm hand, over his own, under the table. A distracting squeeze that released the pressure around his chest and allowed him to breathe once more.

He turned to Dean, barely a glance, but enough to assure him that he was well. Dean withdrew his hand.

 _How had he known to do that?_ Castiel wondered. His heart still beat double-time, but he felt clearer, more steady.

When he listened back into the conversation, the gentlemen were discussing the particularly fine venison that had been served at a party, a topic which Castiel was pleased to stay out of while he gathered his wits.

Dean lay his cards on the table with a flourish. “There you have it, gentlemen. I believe that’s the winning hand.”

The rest of the players exclaimed, congratulating Dean, and he took his winnings with a smile. “I’m afraid,” he added getting to his feet, “I’m going to quit while I’m ahead. Lord Milton, join me for a drink?”

Castiel made his apologies to the group as well and joined Dean over by the punch table. Dean stood close as they filled their cups, and murmured, “Are you well?”

Castiel glanced at him, surprised by the concern in his eyes. “Yes, thank you.”

“It was likely nothing,” Dean added, “but I noticed you seem discomforted by the war talk.”

Castiel wasn’t sure how to reply to that. It was true, he was sometimes undone by memories of horrors he’d seen, but he could hardly own up to it. That sort of behaviour wasn’t considered seemly for an officer. He took a breath to reply but was interrupted by a hand clapping him on the shoulder.

“Come, _mes amis!”_ Balthazar boomed at close range. “Let me introduce you to some pretty _filles_.”

Castiel shared a look with Dean before they were dragged away, hoping to convey his gratitude, and secretly grateful for the distraction from his embarrassment. Hopefully it would never be mentioned by either of them again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms and translations:  
> The ton, also known as the beau monde - high society, the upper classes  
>  _le petit caporal_ \- a nickname for Napoleon Bonaparte  
>  _absolumont_ \- absolutely  
>  _Excusez-moi, Monsieur_ \- excuse me, sir  
>  _mes sincères condoléances_ \- my sincere condolences  
>  _mes amis_ \- my friends  
>  _filles_ \- girls


	4. Chapter 4

It was drizzly, as London was wont to be. The early morning smog still hung heavy and thick in the air; Dean pulled his scarf over his mouth, trapping his curling breaths within the wool. It was far too early to be out, especially here. Spring was well underway, but London was begrudging in its admittance of the fact. The sun hadn’t yet risen to warm the air of the docks, and between the smell of fish and the smell of death from the body at Dean’s feet, Dean found himself glad of it.

Castiel dryly noted as much also, as he stood beside Dean, gazing down at the oh-so-familiar display of the woman stretched out awkwardly on the dockside in front of them.

She was young, perhaps twenty years old. Her hair and dress bore the air of one trying to imitate the fashions of a class above her own—her makeup a little sloppy, her dress fabric thin, her hair pinned roughly up, merely so that it might tumble down later. A provisioner of the London night, Dean would wager, selling herself on the docks to those who worked either far too late or far too early.

“I suppose it was too much to ask that we get a few weeks of relief.” Dean let out on a sigh over the top of his scarf.

“Of course not.” Castiel smirked humorlessly in return. “That would give us time to actually gather evidence and find the demonic culprits, after all.”

The woman was one of many, by now.

Every victim, in some way or another, had something to lead them back into the high society of St. James’ street, and more specifically to Balthazar’s club. But there were no answers. Not from the victims, or from any of poor Sinclair’s casework.

Dean couldn’t resist giving Castiel a subtle nudge with his elbow, cautioning the man to mind his tongue, but the tiny smile they shared was far more fond than it was reprimanding. Dean would have to be careful of that. Looking down between his feet to where a black leather, doctor’s-style bag rested, containing weaponry and other items that a Lettersman never knew when he might need, Dean waited.

In the misty, yellowed light of the gas lantern that swung overhead, Dean found himself struggling not to let his eyes rest on the lord entirely too long, particularly as they were currently in public. Castiel, it seemed, felt the cold more acutely than Dean did—likely a holdover from the warmth of Spain, Dean assumed. When they were called out like this, to rotting bodies found dotted all over London, Castiel wrapped up well, and Dean found it damnably distracting. With a chunky, navy blue scarf wrapped around his throat more times than Dean could count, Castiel spent every moment that he wasn’t freeing his mouth to speak with his shoulders hunched up, bunching the scarf up around his ears until it almost touched the brim of his hat. Only his startlingly blue eyes and a little of his flushed, ruddy cheeks poked out above the woolen loops, and Dean would admit—to himself—that he found the sight strangely enchanting.

“They sent someone from Bow Street,” came the dockmaster’s throaty voice as he approached Dean, Castiel, and the body. He was an amiable enough older man named Bill Blackman, and Dean was grateful to the man that they even had this body to examine—plenty of people in his position would merely have kicked the body back into the Thames.

Dean overheard a dockworker grumbling off to the side about Bow Street resources being wasted on a whore. He couldn’t help the way his lip curled in disgust, the way his fists clenched—he was here to be professional, of course, but he couldn’t abide the idea that one person’s life was worth more than another. There was the tiniest touch to his arm, a brief brush, likely noticed by no one or thought accidental even if seen. But Dean turned to see Castiel looking straight back at him, and he let out a calming breath in response.

Castiel was right; this wasn’t the time or place.

“Ah, here’s the man!” The dockmaster’s voice cut through the air once more over the sound of approaching carriage wheels.

Frowning, Dean wondered why the Runners had chosen to send one of their own, this time—would it not be easier to have the Night Watch attend, as this whole case (a serial killer, Bow Street had it recorded, of course, so as not to unduly shock the populace) was in the hands of the Men of Letters? All they needed was someone to help get the body back to—

Oh, no. A fine gray hat poked its way out of the carriage, above a thick mustache. “Mister Winchester!”

Dean’s chest tightened in annoyance. Of all the Bow Street Runners…they had to send Doug.

Doug Stover was a pleasant enough man, Dean supposed, but he certainly wasn’t the brightest spark, his place among the Bow Street Runners definitely more a case of networking than intelligence. Thankfully—ahh, yes. There she was.

“Mister Stover, Mrs. Hanscum,” Dean called out, bowing down as the carriage door flew open.

Mrs. Donna Hanscum was the reason that Doug remained in Bow Street, once he’d got his foot in the door. She was the reason he progressed, and the only reason that the Men of Letters ever got anything solved with this bumbling fool involved. Sharp, witty, and a fearfully good detective, Doug’s “assistant” Donna was the real brains of the operation. Dean was quite fond of the ineffably cheerful blonde, and often wished it was more appropriate that they be friends.

“Mister Winchester,” Doug began, reaching up to remove his hat. He spun it almost nervously in his fingers, slow and thoughtful. “And Lord Milton! Of course. Terrible to hear about your brother’s passing a couple of months back.”

Castiel looked askance at Dean but bobbed his head to Doug regardless. “Thank you—”

“Mister Stover!” Mrs. Hanscum’s voice boomed out from the carriage as she peered around him. “Don’t you recall that we’re in a hurry? Mister Winchester! Lord Milton! Come with us, if you will, immediately!”

She threw open the other door to the carriage, taking Dean aback.

“Mrs. Hanscum,” he started apologetically, “we actually have an incident here that we have to—”

“Yes, of course, Mister Winchester—that’s how we knew where to find you! Called your office, o’course, didn’t we Douglas, but they said you’d already left for the docks. There’s a second carriage coming to take this poor girl back to Great Queen Street. Now, quickly, get in!”

Some may have thought that Donna Hanscum was a highly inappropriate woman. Given the look on Castiel’s face, he was certainly thinking that right then. But Dean had worked with her in the city for many years, even back when she’d been married, before she’d been widowed by the war. (To another Doug, amusingly enough.) He knew her as a woman who got things done and used every subtle advantage that being a widow bought her; her ability to travel with Doug Stover, whether professional or not, would never have been afforded to a young, unwed woman. She was also humorous and easy to like, Dean found, as long as you weren’t hung up on that kind of propriety.

So, of course, Dean gave Castiel a small shrug and swung himself up into the carriage, weapons bag and all.

As soon as Castiel was in beside him, they were off, the carriage jerking away so fast that Mister Stover briefly lost his hat.

“What’s the hurry?” Castiel questioned, holding on to his own brim with one hand.

Mrs. Hanscum gathered her skirts in closer, giving them all a little room, and leaned forward with a surprisingly gleeful grin on her face as she hissed, “We’ve got you a live one, boys!”

Dean had been focused on how warm Castiel’s thigh felt pressed against his own on the bench seat, but at that, his attention was wholly grabbed. “A live one—you mean someone with the same possession appearance as the others?”

“Oh, you betcha,” she nodded firmly. “And when we left him a few minutes ago, he was the most lively any of ‘em have been.”

“Quite rabid, in fact,” Mister Stover added nervously. “In the alleyways at the back of Balthazar’s club.”

Dean and Castiel shared a long look, as they had become so adept at doing. This news meant several things: that the incidents were happening more frequently, that they had another connection to Balthazar’s, and that there was a chance that they’d get to see a living specimen, for the first time since Cuthbert Sinclair in the graveyard, which by then had been many corpse-filled weeks before.

The carriage clattered across London, bouncing across cobbles and curbs, causing shouts and recrimination from passers-by as they were driven into the sides of the pavement. Doug held his hat, Dean held the window frame, and at one point, Castiel even briefly grabbed Dean’s knee, as they were shaken around like dice in a cup. Mrs. Hanscum merely whooped with excitement, sticking her head out of the window and telling their driver to pick up the pace as much as he was able. Dean loved a carriage, and a swift ride like that was good for his soul, but even he would have to admit to feeling a little bruised by the time they disembarked at Balthazar’s.

The small group spilled out onto the pavement.

“Through the alleys at the back of the building!” Mrs. Hanscum called, hitching the front of her skirt practically to her knee as she hurried toward the low step up to the door of Balthazar’s. “Doug and I will handle keeping everyone inside while you do your job, gentlemen!”

Castiel was already running ahead, wearing his favorite outfit of late—not that Dean had noticed, of course—deep navy fall-front trousers and a matching waistcoat, with his eternally favored tan overcoat and navy blue scarf. Of course, Dean didn’t waste any seconds admiring the way the trousers pulled across Castiel’s thighs as he ran…of course not. They had a job to do.

Dean tightened his grip on their weapons stash.

Sprinting into the alleyway, they were both met with quite a sight. Two young men in matching breeches and coats—staff of Balthazar’s, Dean assumed—were blocking the entrance to one of the trash-filled alleyways that headed off from St. James’ Street and out into the less frequented, less affluent streets. It was an exceedingly narrow lane, barely wide enough for two men to walk abreast, and it would be an awful place for a fight. Both men were white as sheets, holding up heavy batons and staring further up the lane.

“Men of Letters!” Castiel announced, barely out of breath from his run, slowing as he reached them. By then, Castiel had been issued with his brass pin to wear on his lapel to identify him, just as Dean wore, but it didn’t hurt to speed the process along.

One of the men pointed ahead, stepping immediately aside. “He’s all yours, m’Lord,” he squeaked fearfully.

Ahead, there stood a tall, hulking man in pale, dirty trousers and a deep brown coat. His clothes were worn and ripped, as if he’d been fighting or wrestling on the floor. He had one hand on the brick wall of the south side of the alleyway, his fingers splayed out for support, and he stood a couple of feet back, leaning into the red brick with his head hanging pathetically. His shoulders heaved, and even as Dean began a careful approach, he could see the sweat dripping off the man.

Dropping the leather bag that he carried, Dean exchanged merely a weighty look with Castiel as they both dove into it, retrieving their personal favorites. Dean had a pistol, an old sea-service flintlock that had been his father’s. The Men of Letters could provide him any weapon he desired, but this one was so familiar to his hands that he could load it in pitch black, and it brought him luck. Castiel, on the other hand, wielded a wicked looking, chunky dragon blunderbuss that intimidated as much as it injured. He’d never mentioned as much, but Dean could see the military fitting on the side that allowed it to bear a bayonet, and that was enough for him to be able to guess at its origins.

“Ahoy, man,” Dean called out. “Are you well?”

The man slowly began to raise his head, his hand slipping shakily from the wall. Beside him, Dean could hear Castiel loading his blunderbuss; from the corner of his eye he caught the familiar motion of Castiel flipping it, loading shot through the muzzle from a leather pouch at his waist, hidden beneath his coat. His fingers worked similarly, prepping his gun for fire even as his eyes stayed trained on the man who was now lurching upright.

His eyes were devoid of any glimmer of sense, his mind as blank as fresh paint behind his dull, brown pupils. He foamed at the mouth, his tongue lolling, and overall, he exuded a sense of foreboding…and panic, and pain. His skin grey and mottled, he looked very far from someone who should be upright and moving.

“He…” Dean gulped, trailing off.

“Whatever was in him is long gone,” Castiel assessed quietly, between the two of them. “I don’t think it left much of him behind.”

With a startling wail of despair, the man pitched forward, his arm out in a fist as he fixed his emotionless gaze on them.

What followed was a desperate tussle, a struggle born of the choice between keeping people safe from what remained of this poor man, and not wanting to have to inform yet another family that they didn’t know what had happened to their loved one.

Dean dived forward to meet him immediately—the man went straight for Castiel, hands out, growling unnaturally, and Dean instinctively met the challenge.

There was no way he was losing another partner, not now, not Castiel.

The creature had made the man preternaturally strong, it seemed, and whatever was left in him gave him no fear. He swung and bit and snarled, driving Dean back toward the wall.

“Don’t let him touch you!” Castiel called out, diving in to haul the man off by his collar.

Dean huffed with annoyance; as if he didn’t know that. They had no idea, still, how these victims were being controlled or how the possession was spreading. Touching him was the _last_ thing Dean wanted to do.

But the man was making it very hard for them. As Castiel hauled him backward, he twisted and writhed, scratching at Castiel’s hands with bare nails and turning his neck further than should ever be natural in order to snap and snarl in Castiel’s face. Repulsed, Castiel jerked back, letting him go. Holding up his gun in both hands, out before him like a shield, Castiel slowly raised a hand in a calming signal.

“We’re not here to hurt you—” he began, before being cut off by a blood-curling _yowl_.

The man threw himself forward, all lead weight and earthy, rotting smell, making Dean’s nose crinkle as he tried to get ahold of the man from behind—only to lose him completely as he bodily hurtled at Castiel.

With a loud _“Oof”_ and a sickening crack, Castiel was forced back against the wall on the other side of the alleyway, his head smacking back against the bricks with a sound that made Dean’s jaw clench.

Blinking dazed eyes and staggering, Castiel stumbled. Just a momentary wobble from the shock, but enough for the man to turn his attention from him and crack his elbow into the side of Dean’s temple while he was distracted.

Dean’s pistol scuttled off across the floor, and his vision dulled for a moment as the smack resounded through his skull, before exploding back into fractals of light. Bright, vibrating, fireworks flashed across his vision and lit up the whole side of his face in pain. But, thankfully, after a moment it settled and he blinked hard, shaking his head as he scrambled up from the filthy ground he’d landed on.

In the mere seconds Dean had been occupied, the man had rushed back to Castiel and had him pinned by the throat against the wall. Castiel’s toes scrambled for the floor, but he rallied valiantly; pummeling the creature around the head with tight fists that Dean was certain he’d never want to be on the receiving end of.

The man staggered, but it was momentary.

Grasping Castiel by two handfuls of his vest, he lifted him and slammed him against the wall, knocking a pained yell and a huff of breath from Castiel’s lungs. Again and again, he spun Castiel around, bashing him from wall to wall like a ball in a game of Bagatelle. Castiel’s arms flailed, and the blunderbuss on its strap over his arm smacked against the wall beside him.

“CAS!” Dean yelled out, public propriety be damned.

There was merely a gurgle in response.

As the man swung Castiel around again, Dean launched himself forward. He threw his body weight between them, taking the man by surprise, and plastered his body to Castiel’s, shielding him from the hits for a moment as Dean’s fingers found the dangling blunderbuss at his side. Praying that it was still correctly loaded after being shaken around, Dean spun the heavy, trumpet-muzzled weapon in his hand. He pointed it backward under his arm and into the chest of the man whose unnaturally rabid weight had them all pinned together, like a bread and meat sandwich against the wall.

Dean’s finger tightened.

_BOOM!_

The blunderbuss was a _loud_ beast, not like Dean’s pistol. As Dean had often thought, the weapon was more about intimidation than accuracy. The sound of the man’s chest cavity filling with lead shot resounded through the alleyway—but all that Dean could be conscious of was Castiel’s form in front of him. His hands either side of Castiel, he had his colleague pinned against the wall, his breath hitting Castiel’s cheek.

There was a dull _thump_ as the lifeless body of the demon’s most recent victim hit the ground.

Dean and Castiel were both shaking and panting from exertion and fear, and Castiel let out a low groan; for just a moment, his head lolled forward onto Dean’s shoulder. Dean reached up, huffing in long breaths, and gave Castiel a firm, appreciative pat on the side of his neck.

“Good job, m’Lord,” he said, almost mocking, though it was in fact quite fond. “Try not to let one corner you next time.”

Castiel shook his head, and surprisingly, he laughed as Dean stepped back. “Try not to get cracked around the head and leave me to fight alone, next time,” Castiel threw back, grinning as his chest heaved in precious air.

The little lane at the back of Balthazar’s was quiet, though it would likely be buzzing with watchmen and Balthazar’s employees within minutes, and Mister Stover and Mrs. Hanscum would be there to assist as soon as the supernatural threat was pronounced deceased.

But for a few precious moments, it was quiet.

Dean and Castiel both slumped down to the ground, carelessly sitting in the mud, their forearms resting on their knees as they caught their breath.

“Thank you,” Castiel said after a moment, much more serious than their previous exchange. “Things got hairy there for a moment.”

“Don’t mention it,” Dean mumbled breathlessly down toward his knees.

Placing his palms back on the floor to open up his chest, Castiel leaned back. “This is all a waste of time, you know.”

“How so?” Dean questioned.

Castiel lifted an eyebrow in an expression that read, _Really, Dean?_

“No, seriously,” Dean snapped. “What are we supposed to do? Just leave these people?”

“That’s not what I mean,” Castiel fired back immediately, “and you know it. We’re wasting time with these bodies, Dean, with chasing these men. We need to focus on Balthazar’s, and the connection between them all.”

“What?” Dean said, disbelieving. “We fit in the investigative stuff where we can, but this is where we’re _needed_ , Castiel. This is what we _do._ ”

“There has to be a more efficient way than following a trail of corpses, Dean!”

“Well maybe if we’d been faster, he wouldn’t have been a corpse!”

Castiel reached his hand up to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose and letting out a long sigh. “You can’t save everybody, my friend,” he said, quiet and low, after a moment.

“Well this is the Men of Letters, Castiel, not the military. And on this side of the channel, we don’t leave people behind,” Dean ground out viciously, pushing himself up onto his knees.

Castiel recoiled like he’d been slapped, his face so instantly thunderous that he could give a midsummer storm a run for its money. Immediately, Dean wished he could take it back—he hadn’t meant that, not really, of course he hadn’t—

But Castiel pushed up from the ground with a growl in his chest that told Dean now was simply not the time to argue further. He stalked off up the alleyway to meet Donna at the back door as she emerged, and left Dean fuming in the dirt.

That ridiculous, moody man would be the death of him, Dean decided.

_Thump, thump-thump_.

Castiel moved around the tightly stuffed burlap sack in the training room of number 12 Sackville Street, his feet dancing to a rhythm his mind wasn’t quite hearing. His wrapped fists stung with the force of his blows, but he paid the pain no mind—he wanted it, needed to take his mind off his insufferable partner.

How _dare_ Dean suggest that the military was anything less than honorable? He gritted his teeth as he punched again and again at the bag.

Dean _knew_ he'd been through it in Spain. On several occasions now, he'd actually steered conversation away from topics that he knew would bother Castiel, something Castiel was grateful for. He hated the fact that he craved news about the war effort, and yet the very mention of specific events would send him spiraling into a gibbering mess. He had no idea what was wrong with him—something was broken in him, but he had no inkling how to mend it.

After the liberation of Spain in 1814, Castiel had advanced into France with the British army, when news of Boney’s abdication reached them. Castiel had headed for the port in Calais, originally deployed to America to join the war effort there, but instead received word of Michael’s death. Boney was gone, exiled, and Castiel’s war was over—or so he’d thought.

_Thump-thump, thump-thump._

Now Boney had escaped Elba, and was reportedly rallying the French army on his way to Paris. The allies were planning a force to meet him again, and Castiel was itching to know what was being planned. Whether troops were already on their way, if the imperial troops had reached Paris. The papers only reported so much sanctioned, heavily censored information, and he doubted any of his old officer friends would know how to reach him here in London.

_Thump-thump-thump._

“I didn't pick you for a pugilist, Cas.” A voice from behind him—Dean.

Castiel stopped his attack on the punching bag, leaning on it as he breathed heavily. He wiped the sweat out of his eyes before he turned to regard Dean, standing just inside the doorway of the gymnasium, watching him warily.

He was still angry with Dean, and he had no idea why the man was seeking him here, but he may as well attempt civility. “My brother trained with Gentleman Jackson for a time—he taught me a few things last time we were both at home.”

Dean nodded, his eyes glancing down over Castiel’s appearance and back up to his sweaty face. He could only imagine how he must look in his breeches and shirt, his long sleeves rolled up, and he felt his face warm further against his wishes.

“Come on, then,” Dean said, shrugging off the black tailcoat he was wearing. He tossed it aside, over the back of a chair near the wall, and began to untie his cravat.

“Come on, what?” Castiel asked, his mouth suddenly dry as the desert as he watched Dean unbuttoning and removing his waistcoat.

“Show me what you’ve got. I’ve been part of the Fancy since I was yea high.” He held his hand at hip height momentarily, before he sat down on the chair to begin to unlace his boots.

Castiel had to turn away from this slow undressing, and hurried across the room in search of water. He gulped down the glass that was already poured, then poured another, unable to help turning around to see Dean shrugging off his white linen shirt completely, his back to Castiel. He had to swallow again heavily as he saw smooth, freckled shoulders, and as Dean folded and placed his shirt on the chair, he turned to reveal the soft-looking hair on his broad chest, marked with its Aquarian star. His eyes met Castiel’s, and Castiel quickly turned away to replace the tumbler on its tray.

Could he do this? Could he actually go up against Dean in the boxing ring, while he was standing there, looking so…

“What are you waiting for, man? Come on, let’s spar.” Dean stepped into the marked square on one side of the gymnasium, stretching his arms above his head, and Castiel made an involuntary noise that came out as a squeak.

He lifted a corner of his own undershirt and wiped at his face, then he pulled it back down as neatly as he could manage and stepped towards the boxing ring. He was in control. He could do this.

Stepping into the ring, he paced across one side of it, watching Dean as he went. Dean returned his gaze, then stepped forwards and put up his bare fists.

Castiel clenched his fists around the bandages he’d wrapped around them, gritted his teeth and stepped in towards Dean to throw an uppercut. Dean blocked him easily, sidestepping and moving around him to his left. Dean feinted low, but Castiel was ready for him, blocking Dean’s punch towards his face.

They danced around a little more, then Castiel lunged in to try to land a punch low on Dean’s ribs. Dean grabbed his arm, throwing his leg behind Cas’ knees and sweeping his feet out from under him. Castiel landed on the sprung floor with a thump, the wind knocked out of him.

Dean reached down a hand to help him up, but Castiel twisted his body, flinging his feet around Dean’s legs and bringing him down to the floor in a heap. He pushed Dean over to pin him, his hands on Dean’s shoulders as he leaned over him.

Dean’s labored breaths were warm on Castiel’s face from just a few inches away—he smelled like spice and leather, and Castiel knew he was lost. The room may have been dim, but the sunlight streaming in the small window illuminated the green of Dean’s eyes as he watched Castiel’s own.

Their gaze held; a little too long, perhaps.

“Nice one, Cas,” Dean murmured, and Castiel became aware of how closely their bodies were aligned in this position. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to make this ten times as awkward as it was already starting to be.

He swallowed again, and replied with a small, “Thank you.” Pushing himself back off Dean and onto his feet, he extended his hand to Dean to help him up.

Dean finally moved his gaze from Castiel’s face to his wrapped hand, and his eyes opened wide. “Cas, you’re hurt! Why did you not tell me?” He pushed himself to his feet without Castiel’s help, but then grabbed one of his hands and turned it over, revealing the blood seeping through the wrappings. Dean looked up at Castiel, concerned. “We’ve got some medical supplies over here; let me help you with that.”

Castiel shook his head. “It’s no matter, Dean. I’ll take care of them upstairs.” He turned towards the other side of the room, where he’d hung up his clothing, but Dean stopped him with a hand on his elbow.

“Please, let me help you?” When Castiel still hesitated, he added, “I’m sorry about what I said earlier. Could we come to a compromise, perhaps?”

Castiel turned back as he began to unwrap the fabric from his hands. “A compromise for what? The case?”

“Yes.” Dean moved over to a set of shelves set into a recess in the wall, and pulled down a box from a shelf at eye level. “I think this is the one—yes, it is.”

They both sat at the table near the window, Dean pulling supplies out of the box while Castiel continued unwrapping his hands. The skin of his knuckles had been split a little, that was all.

Still, Dean winced when he saw the blood smeared across Castiel’s knuckles. “I have some lavender water here. Fresh bandages, too, if you’d be willing to keep them covered for a day or so?”

Castiel nodded. “Thank you,” he said, then had to force himself not to gasp when Dean took his left hand oh-so-gently, dabbing at his damaged knuckles with a soft cloth dipped in the lavender water. This Dean, this gentle helper, was such a juxtaposition with the brutal fighter he’d seen this morning and in the ring just now. The light shone through the window, alighting on his hair like a bright halo, and the touch of his hands sent shivers up Castiel’s arms as he cleaned and bound first one hand, then the other.

“There,” Dean said, completing his task. “I patched Sam up more times as a child than I’d care to count. He was a fearless little thing, and my dad…” He trailed off, a melancholy creeping into his voice. “His work kept him away a lot.”

Castiel finally had no choice but to pull his hands away from Dean’s grasp, inspecting the neat job Dean had made of the bandaging. “Thank you. I guess I went a little hard on the bag over there.”

“Thinking of my face, were you?” Dean asked with a smirk.

“I—” Castiel began, but stopped. The words “I always think of your face” had been right on the tip of his tongue, but he managed to bite them back before he made a fool of himself. “I’m sorry, too, Dean. About earlier. Of course we should help protect the people of the city.”

Dean eyed him, then turned to replace the medical items in their box. He left the dirtied cloth on the table with the water pitcher, then stood up to replace the box on its shelf. “We could also spend more time trying to solve the puzzle, you were also correct.”

“Very well,” Castiel said, standing from his chair. “Shall we agree to discuss things before raising our voices at each other? Honesty and compromise is always the best way forward, wouldn't you agree?”

Dean nodded amiably, saying, “Agreed. In fact, I came here to find you because I received a message from Sam with regards to the body brought in this morning.”

Castiel picked up his clothes from where they were hanging. “I might visit the washrooms first, change into something more presentable. I’ll meet you at headquarters?”

With the sunniest smile Castiel had seen Dean with for days, Dean said, “Very good. I shall see you there before supper.”

As Castiel headed up to the bathrooms, he was glad he didn’t have to spend another moment trying not to look at Dean’s bare chest. As it was, he made doubly sure no one was around before he entered the bathroom and started to remove his sweat-soiled clothing.

His half-hard cock mocked him when he freed it from his breeches. How was he going to continue to work with Dean, when this was the result of the mere sight of his broad shoulders and freckled skin?

He picked up a linen washcloth from a pile by one of the basins and wet it in the smaller basin of bathwater, trying not to wet the bandages Dean had so carefully wrapped around his knuckles. This basin was kept tepid all day, a small oil burner warming it from below.

He scrubbed at his chest and arms, unable to keep his mind from relentlessly remembering the feeling of pinning Dean to the floor, of his hands on the other man's shoulders, of looking down into his green eyes…

What might it feel like for those gentle hands to touch him elsewhere, he wondered? His face, perhaps, as he wiped the cloth along his cheek. Or…he dragged the cloth down his side, scouring away the sweat of his exercise, hitching in a breath when he reached his hip bone. What if Dean touched him…

He quickly looked over his shoulder to ensure the door was closed. Surely it was too early for most of the Men of Letters to be wanting a bath. They would mostly be here after supper, before heading out for the evening's entertainment.

He took himself in hand, then, pumping his full length with slow strokes to start with, then longer, faster as he imagined Dean above him, touching him, kissing him, _around_ him. His breathing became labored as he tried to stay quiet, biting back moans and whimpers. He'd wanted this for weeks now, there was no denying it. He wanted to see Dean cry out beneath him, wanted to hear him call his name in passion. He stroked a little faster, a slow buzz building in his core.

Letting out a strangled cry, he crashed over the edge, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing out a hand to steady himself against the edge of the basin.

He blinked a few times as his vision cleared again, and looked down to see thick white streaks painting the rug beneath his bare feet.

Grimacing, he caught his breath for a few moments, then bent quickly to mop up the mess with the linen. He hoped it wouldn't be too obvious once it dried, although in a gentlemen's boarding house, he was sure this room must see its share of action.

He sighed as he stood, wiping himself down roughly with a fresh washcloth. Dreaming was all he would ever get, when it came to Dean Winchester. They were colleagues, partners in investigation, nothing more. He clenched his fist around the bandages Dean had wrapped around it.

Nothing more.

Dean stood on one side of a long table in Sam’s laboratory, Castiel on the other. Sam stood at the head, between them, looking back and forth from one to the other, sipping his tea noisily.

“So,” Sam said, smirking at his tea leaves, “Victim number twenty-seven, now. That’s a lot of bodies.”

“No shit, Sammy,” Dean said.

Castiel cleared his throat. “Yes, thank you. We are quite well aware.”

“Every single victim has had the same signs and symptoms, to a lesser or greater extent,” Sam went on, ignoring them both. “You have a connection to Balthazar’s—through proximity in a few cases, but mostly through network connections or what you’ve tracked of their prior movements. Even Ellie Brown, the woman you found at the docks, probably had contact with one of the men at the club shortly before her demise.”

Dean nodded slowly. “It’s a connection. A strong one, I’m sure. But one that helps us little, in a club the size of Balthazar’s. The man is an eccentric, and bloody French at that, but I’m hard-pressed to think this is his doing.”

“We shouldn’t discount him, though,” Castiel argued quietly, though he was nodding.

“Yes,” Dean agreed, reaching up to rub both hands across his face to the back of his head. “You’re right. He’s a suspect as much as any other, at present. Though I still think Sinclair likely started all this, dabbling in occult things far above his grade. Do we have any leads on his case or his recent whereabouts, Sam?”

Over at his desk, Sam rustled his way resolutely through books and papers, though he did at least respond while he searched. “Bobby sent an agent to search Sinclair’s apartment, of course, as well as Alfie’s. They finally located what we think might be some notes on his prior case—whatever he never reported to Bobby in time.”

“That’s excellent news,” Dean said. “What did they have to say?”

“Well, that’s the curious thing,” Sam said, excitement in his voice even though he was distracted. “We can’t make head nor tail of them. All written in code. I sent them to Ash, of course.”

Dean nodded. If anyone could make good sense of such a thing, it would be Ash.

Castiel peered at Sam, confused. “Ash, the young gentleman who...who did my tattoos?”

“Yes,” Sam replied, like it should have been obvious. “Brilliant mind for numbers. If he’d been born into a higher station, he’d be at Cambridge for sure, not cracking codes for us.”

The laboratory was chill this early in the morning, being in the basement portion of the Men of Letters’ headquarters. Bobby claimed that the scientists and occultists were housed down there so that they could have quiet to do their delicate tasks, but Dean maintained that they were shoved in the dark, underground rooms so as to minimize the damage when one of these crazies inevitably blew themselves up.

Dean pulled his jacket tight, closing it across his front. He flicked his eyes up, only to see Castiel’s gaze resting on his fingers as he worked the buttons. He looked back in turn, wordlessly, a strange fluttering keeping his mouth shut, lest whatever flew within escaped.

Sam cleared his throat.

Both Dean and Castiel snapped their eyes up to Sam somewhat guiltily.

“Yes, well,” Sam said slowly, shaking his head. Dean could sense that Sam was wishing he’d hopped on a boat to the new colonies several hours prior. “Perhaps there is more than one connection between the victims,” Sam continued. “I rather hate to suggest it, but perhaps we should look at them all afresh, map them out, dig into their lives.”

“All of them?” said Dean, appalled.

“That does make sense,” Castiel agreed, though he sounded no more eager than Dean. “And we shall help you”—he eyed Dean pointedly—“given that we have a few hours until we’re expected to be at the party later on.”

Dean grumbled a few choice, offensive words beneath his breath, but didn’t taint his little brother’s ears with them. Not that Sam was an innocent, far from it; rather, he knew it wouldn’t do him any good. “Alright, very well. Let’s get ourselves a map and start logging all of the incidents, shall we?”

“Good,” said Sam, sounding relieved. “That should keep your eyes occupied,” he muttered lowly, barely loud enough for Dean to hear.

Dean’s eyes snapped to Sam quickly, but he swallowed down his concern. Sam had long known of his…proclivities. He was more likely to tease Dean for his growing feelings than for who they were directed at. But even so, if Sam could pick up on his useless mooning after the handsome lord, he should be careful. Others might, too.

“If you and Lord Milton will take the brass pins in that jar,” Sam was saying, gesturing to one of the shelves, “and remap all the bodies, that will be the best place to start. I have something to look up, from the incident this morning.”

“Very well,” Castiel said, rising and fetching the pins, while Dean wrestled with unrolling the map of London that Sam handed over. “You mentioned that you had something specific to discuss about the body this morning.”

Sam nodded, dropping a heavy tome down onto the end of their table and seating himself behind it. Dean would have tried to read the title or a few words to glean Sam’s purpose, but it was all in Latin—a language he’d never had much luck with, perhaps a handful of words enough to get him through the long, dull sermons that his youngest brother Adam would deliver at their parish church back in Derbyshire. Dean suppressed a little shudder. Really, it was hard to believe Adam was a Winchester at all, sometimes…but he was, and so Dean tried his best to remember his prayers. For his brother.

Breaking through Dean’s thoughts, Sam responded to Castiel. “Not from the body itself, but from one of the men that the Runners’ interviewed at the docks on our behalf. Did you know, they sent Allen Fielding to supervise? The son of Henry Fielding himself!”

Dean rolled his eyes fondly. “Alright, Sammy, no need to get your petticoats in a twist over a famous magistrate.” To Castiel, Dean leaned across and stage-whispered, “In another life, I believe my brother would have gone into jurisprudence. Instead, he dabbles in the occult and often rarely keeps on the right side of the law.”

Sam gave a disapproving sniff. “That was once, Dean, only once.”

Castiel seemed amused by the gentle banter between the brothers, smiling to himself. After squinting down at Sam’s notes, which were spread all over the table next to the map, he pressed another couple of pins into sites around London before returning to conversation. “So, what was it that Mister Fielding uncovered, Sam?”

“Oh! Of course.” Sam cleared his throat, placing a finger in his book while he paused. “One of the dockworkers saw Miss Brown before she passed. Her appearance seems to have been much the same as the others immediately before they died—rabid and prone to violence. One thing that the dock worker noted, though, was that she wandered in and out of several buildings as she declined, one being the Congregation of Jacob.”

Castiel’s head raised then, tilting curiously, his pins stilled. “A Jewish synagogue?”

Sam nodded. “She appeared to be wandering aimlessly, but the dock worker who followed her—thinking her drunk and in need of a watchful eye, or perhaps he was just hoping for a free go—noted that she very hastily recoiled when she reached the sanctuary. He believed her afraid of the flame.”

“Flame?” Dean asked, curious.

“The chancel lamp…the eternal flame,” Castiel explained quietly. “It’s a tradition that Catholics share with Jews. We—they, uh, always have a light, near the altar. An eternal flame. It’s a lamp of oil, by most teachings.”

“And she was afraid of the fire?” Dean questioned again, frowning.

“Just that one specifically,” Sam said, bending his head back down to his book. “They have no gas lamps in the poorer parts of the docks, and at that time of night there are plenty of open flames for people to see by, even purveyors of meats and such with open burning pits outside of the buildings. She had no issue with those.”

Dean turned to Castiel, then, knowing that his simple experiences in Adam’s Protestant church would help him little here. “What makes the flame special, Cas?”

If Sam noticed the nickname he didn’t mention it, though he paused in his reading to look up at Castiel as well.

“I suppose,” Castiel said thoughtfully, crossing his arms over his vest, “it would have to be the oil. If burning wood or candles didn’t affect the creature, then we have to surmise that the difference is the holy oil that’s used.”

“Holy oil!” Sam said suddenly, the pages of his book flying as he leafed through them at a furious pace. “I know I’ve seen something…”

Sam devolved into muttering and page flicking, and so Dean and Castiel left him to it. They worked on the map, filling it with a pin for each of the incidents they had recorded. There were, certainly, a cluster of bodies found around Balthazar’s club. But, that wasn’t the only pattern that drew itself out before their eyes.

“Such distinct lines,” Castiel said, frowning curiously at the way some of the brass tacks formed clusters that linked into thick, distinct lines dissecting various London boroughs. “Look, here—right past St. Pancras, where we found Cuthbert Sinclair. And here—”

“Straight through Great Guildford Street, where Alfie was last seen,” Dean picked up eagerly. “But what do they mean? Neat lines like that can only be deliberate, but they don’t even match the roads.”

Castiel made a hum of agreement, his eyes fixed on the map in thought. He reached up, running his hand back through his hair and bringing it to wild disarray. Dean tried to hide his small smile at the action and clenched his fist against the urge to allow his own fingers to follow where Castiel’s had been.

 _Keep control of yourself, man,_ Dean chided himself. Alright, so Castiel had shown some signs of being similarly attracted…but they were work colleagues. It was getting more difficult as time went on, perhaps, but Dean knew he _must_ be conscious of that and keep his inappropriate thoughts—and feelings, because they had long ago stopped being a mere appreciation of Castiel’s fine thighs, he knew—entirely to himself.

“Sacred geometry,” Castiel suddenly breathed out, his eyes widening, looking so proud of himself that it was almost comical.

Dean’s chest ached fondly. “And what might that be, Cas?”

“Ley lines!” he exclaimed, turning to Dean and grinning. “The bodies—here, look, and here—they all fall on ley lines. Some believe that there are lines of power, supernatural power, that cross the country. I never thought a single word of it was true when I heard of them, but given everything else I’ve learned…”

Beaming, Dean reached across and gave Castiel’s forearm a quick, appreciative squeeze. He tried not to linger…of course, there was no need to touch him at all, but apparently Dean was a masochist these days. “Excellent work,” Dean said warmly. “As much as I should be ashamed to admit it, given how I…well, how begrudgingly I accepted you as a partner, I do declare that you are actually rather good at this,” he offered quietly.

Castiel blinked, and Dean would have sworn a flush began to build at his cheeks. “I—thank you, Dean. That, uh, that means a lot to hear,” he confessed.

“We’ll make an excellent Lettersmen of you yet,” Dean quipped, giving Castiel a hearty wink before turning to spare him his blushes.

Luckily, Sam had no sense of propriety when he got excited over his books, and his rising voice barreled straight through their moment.

“HOLY OIL!”

“Samuel,” Dean chastised. “We’re right here, no need to deafen us.”

Sam scrambled from his chair and sped off to the door at the side of the small laboratory, which led out to a large, many-shelved stock room that all of the laboratories shared. Dean and Castiel exchanged a look, but he reappeared in short order, clutching a dusty relic of a jug that was sealed with wax and bore engraved scribblings all around the outside.

Yet more Latin. Dean sighed. He was going to have to improve.

Sam’s face was glowing with pride and excitement as he slammed the jug down on the table between where Dean and Castiel stood. “Holy oil,” he announced. “Denizens of hell, demons themselves, cannot cross the flames of ignited holy oil.”

Dean and Castiel both looked at Sam, smiling uncertainly.

“Oh, come on, gentlemen!” Sam crowed, slapping the table like he thought they were damnably slow. “A trap! You can use this to trap a demon!”

Slowly, the realization settled between them, and when it finally hit, it had Dean striding forward to clap his brother proudly on the shoulder.

“Fine work, Sam,” he praised. “Fine work indeed.”

“I agree,” Castiel said, nodding firmly, before he offered a little grimace. “Though I suppose the question now is: how do we find one before it flees its host?”

That was, indeed, the question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms:  
> Pugilist - a boxer  
> Gentleman Jackson - a famous boxer of the late eighteenth century  
> The fancy - a collective name for followers of competitive sport, in this case, boxing


	5. Chapter 5

The carriage clattered along the Great Western Road, heading for Twickenham.

Castiel's sister, now Lady Anna Shurley of a wealthy estate in Buckinghamshire, was currently leasing a house with her husband near the river in Twickenham, not far to the west of town.

Lady Anna had of course been devastated by the news of their brother's death, as Castiel had. She had, however, been comforted to learn of Castiel's appointment to the Men of Letters and his relocation to London. She'd told him at great length how worried she'd been about him while he'd been abroad, several times over, each time she'd called on him at Michael's old apartment.

How Lord Shurley traveled down this bumpy road every day while parliament was sitting was beyond Castiel’s knowledge. Thankfully, the journey should only take them an hour or so, and it was pleasant enough sitting with Dean, trading ideas between them on how they might attempt to trap a demon, as their knees bumped together now and then.

“We could put the holy oil across a door and light it as soon as the demon has passed by?” Dean asked, tapping his fingers across the brim of his top hat where he held it in his lap.

“We’d have to block all the other entrances,” Castiel replied.

Dean was insistent. “It could be done, though.”

“Well, yes. But how does one lure a demon in the first place? We need bait of some sort to lay a trap.” Castiel tried to keep frustration out of his tone—they’d been talking themselves in circles for the whole journey, not thinking of any viable solutions.

Dean made a noncommittal humph and looked out the window.

Castiel studied his profile in the bright early afternoon sunlight, admiring the line of his nose and jaw. What he wouldn’t give to be able to reach out now and smooth away the lines on Dean’s forehead, to kiss the frown from his lips. He filed those thoughts away for later, much later, and instead looked out the other window to the open expanse of fields and meadows of Surrey.

He had missed his sister so much while he’d been abroad. Their shared journey as pilgrims all those years ago had brought them close, and it had been somewhat of a locally scandalous topic—a young, unmarried woman travelling abroad to such volatile areas—but at least she’d had her brother with her as chaperone.

Castiel had just been glad to escape his mother's relentless attempts at matchmaking, at the time. He'd tried to write to Anna as often as he could after she'd moved away to be married, and then while he was on the peninsula or in France, but it was lovely to be able to see her again in person, now that she was the settled lady and mistress of an estate. She’d insisted he come to this garden party—her first of the summer. And he simply must bring his colleague with him, since there seemed to be a shortage of eligible bachelors for her friends to meet. The idea of bringing his friend to the party like some kind of offering left a bad taste in his mouth, but Castiel had done as she asked. He felt sorry for Dean already.

The carriage turned off the road and into a long drive. Dean asked, “We’ve arrived?”

They both craned their necks to see the house—Anna hadn’t been exaggerating. Benedict House was impressive, its many-windowed, brick facade framed by a small park and well-kept gardens. Several carriages lined the drive, dropping their passengers near the front door and turning to pass the Men of Letters’ carriage on the way out.

“Looks like Lady Shurley invited the entire beau monde,” Dean observed wryly. “Just how well-connected is your sister, Cas?”

“She’s been living here each season since she was married, I believe. She may not enjoy everyone in society, but she has always been interested in the affairs of state. I’m fairly sure she holds these things to get in certain lords’ ears and try to influence parliamentary debates.” Castiel shared a grin with Dean.

Despite his having been in London for several months now, he had not introduced his sister to Dean. She knew of his preferences in the way of romantic partners, but she’d also told him she knew of Dean’s reputation among the women of London society. Castiel had kept carefully quiet about his damnable yearning towards his partner—he didn’t need Anna teasing him on top of trying to keep his own longing at bay.

They alighted from the carriage and were welcomed into and shown through the house, drinks in hand—some kind of delicious, fruity summer punch that Castiel was sure contained more than a tipple of something alcoholic.

Almost as soon as they stepped through the doors at the back of the house, Anna descended on them, accompanied by a group of young women, all fluttering lashes and white lace. Of course they'd heard that two eligible bachelors had been invited—he and Dean probably wouldn't be able to get away from them for the rest of the afternoon, he supposed.

Anna smiled at them both. “Welcome, brother,” she said, leaning up to kiss Castiel on both cheeks.

He pulled back to smile warmly at her. “Anna. Are you well?”

“Very, thank you!” She already looked flushed, as though she’d started drinking the punch before the guests even arrived. She turned to Dean, her eyes bright as she looked him up and down. “And Mister Winchester, I presume. Very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

If Dean was surprised by her boldness in introducing herself, nothing showed on his face. He merely took her hand and brought it to his lips, and with a small bow, said, “The pleasure is all mine, madam.” The ladies behind Anna tittered and sighed, and Castiel repressed a sudden desire to roll his eyes at Dean’s theatrics. Instead, he noticed Lord Shurley approaching from behind the gathered ladies, cutting around the crowd to shake Castiel’s hand, then Dean’s.

“Gentlemen, welcome,” he said warmly. The unassuming Lord Charles Shurley was already known to Dean, having met him on several occasions in London over the last few years. Castiel had discovered just the other week at Balthazar’s that Shurley was quite an admirer of Dean’s, and had been pleased to hear that Castiel was working with him. “Come, Milton,” he said genially, “Let me show you around.”

Castiel turned to see if Dean would follow, but Anna already had him in a bind with her ladies, and although he seemed outwardly to be uncomfortable with such attention, Castiel guessed he was secretly loving it. He smiled fondly, then turned quickly when he caught Anna watching him, a fond smile on her own face. Damn. He wasn’t going to hear the end of this.

The garden was framed by high hedges running along the fence-lines, sloping down to a meadow next to the river. It was an exceedingly pleasant outlook, and Castiel paused for a moment to admire the view. Trees dotted the park to provide shade over groups playing bowls on the green lawn, and a four-piece band played a jaunty tune for another group to dance a quadrille under a spreading oak tree. It was a grand spring day for a party, with only scattered clouds to obstruct a clear, blue sky.

Most of the party clustered on the wide terrace close to the house, where several tables had been set up with food and more drink, and seating was available for those who wished to rest.

Shurley drew him over to the crowd, where he was greeted by several of the gentlemen he'd met over the last few weeks at Balthazar's club, as well as introduced to two more ladies who were most keen to meet him. They were sisters, he was told, two of the daughters of Sir Rosen, a Knight of the Garter—Rebecca and Lucy. Rebecca, who assured Castiel that he could address her as “Becky,” kept up a lively discussion that Castiel had trouble following.

“Lord Milton! How delightful to make your acquaintance,” Becky trilled, turning to grin at her sister.

“The party is delightful, is it not?” Lucy added, with perhaps slight embarrassment at her sister’s exuberance.

“Oh please, Lucy,” Becky interrupted. “I’m certain Lord Milton is used to all sorts of extravagant parties, are you not, sir? I’m sure you’re visiting all the clubs and assembly rooms, although soon it will be just too far into the summer for dancing to be comfortable, wouldn’t you agree?”

Castiel nodded politely, but before he could reply, Becky continued, barely pausing to draw breath.

“Why, just the other day Lady Donn reminded me about a party she hosted last summer—this was while she was still in mourning for her dear husband, God rest him, although she is past that now. I’m sure you’ll meet her soon enough, Lord Milton. Where was I? Ah yes, the party!”

Castiel lifted his eyebrows at her, throwing Lucy a glance as Becky pressed on. Lucy merely looked on in fond amusement.

“The height of summer, and Lady Donn insisted we all take a set! By the end of that first quadrille, I was near too hot to live. I told her so, afterwards, as well. I said, ‘My lady, like a monkey on the sun, I am too hot to live.’ She laughed at me,” she added with a smile. “Do you not think her ladyship has the most delightful laugh?”

Castiel saw his way out and pounced on it. “Miss Rebecca, thank you. You have reminded me that I am likewise parched after our journey here. Please excuse me while I go and refresh my glass.”

He bowed politely and, giving his apologies, escaped to the refreshment table to help himself to another glass of punch without guilt. One day, he supposed, he’d be forced to take a wife—some social butterfly like Becky who had plenty of friends to pass her time with, although the idea of having to listen to someone speak so quickly and so excitedly all day long wasn’t an attractive one. Perhaps, instead, he’d meet someone who he liked well enough to spend time with, enough to grit his teeth and produce an heir, even. The idea caused an unpleasant hollow feeling to form in his gut, and he turned to try to locate Dean.

But rather than find his partner, he almost ran right into a group of people standing behind him, and a tall, thin man he recognized—Balthazar Roche.

Balthazar clapped a hand on Castiel’s shoulder, keeping him in place. “My Lord Milton,” he said, making a small mock-bow that Castiel found more irritating than endearing, as the rest of his group seemed to.

“Monsieur Roche,” he greeted, with a prim nod of his own.

“Do you know Lady Antonia Bevell? And this is Colonel Ketch, and his friend Mister Morehead.” Balthazar gestured to each of them in turn, and Castiel murmured his greetings. Lady Bevell he had met before, as she was an associate of the Men of Letters. The women in the society held an equally important role as the men, as they had access to information a man would never hope of recovering.

Balthazar turned back to Castiel, his piercing blue eyes assessing him. “How are those Men of Letters treating you? Well, I hope?”

“Yes, thank you,” Castiel replied with another nod. “I’ve settled into my role there.”

“Indeed? Even as the subordinate to _le charmant_ Dean Winchester? Eh?” He nudged Castiel’s arm playfully.

Castiel scowled. “Yes, although we tend to work side by side rather than as master and subordinate.”

“I see,” said Balthazar, his smirk firmly in place. “It’s just, a birdie told me that Monsieur Winchester likes to have men under him, if you know what I’m saying.”

The two other men around the circle chuckled, and Lady Antonia covered her face with her fan, laughing delicately. Castiel merely stared at the Frenchman. Of course he had guessed such a thing about Dean himself already, but to have it confirmed in such a way was intolerable.

He straightened his spine and said, “I’ll have you know, Mister Winchester is one of the Men of Letters’ finest, and an excellent fighter to boot. I suggest you keep your opinions to yourself, sir!”

Balthazar opened his eyes wide, then laughed. “Come now, _mon cher_ , I was merely joking with you. Come, let us fill our cups again.”

As Castiel’s cup had already just been filled, he merely waited awkwardly until the others in the group had fresh cups of punch before they reformed their little circle.

Lady Antonia reached out and rested her hand on Castiel’s forearm. “Lord Milton,” she said, a sly look in her eye. “Colonel Ketch has been stationed at Whitehall some time, and has just been sharing his news about events in France.”

“Oh?” Castiel’s ears pricked up at the mention of France. “What news is this?”

“Our lord ‘ere is a military man, Colonel,” Balthazar interrupted. “I’m sure you two could talk all evening about the war, if we let you!”

The colonel laughed. “I’m not sure about that, man. In any case, the news is merely that the Allied forces have signed a treaty declaring Bonaparte an outlaw, and are preparing to send forces into France to remove him from power once and for all!”

Castiel huffed. He’d known that already—the treaty had been signed a month ago and was common knowledge amongst anyone who was keeping up with current affairs. “And Napoleon?”

The colonel looked slightly disappointed in Castiel’s answer. “Well, Boney has amassed an army, nearly one hundred and fifty thousand strong.”

“Balthazar?” a voice called, making them all turn to look. A woman approached, clad in a fine burgundy satin gown that ruffled as it fell from her slender waist. “Balthazar! You said you were going to introduce me!”

A flash of light from the lace at her throat caught Castiel’s attention, and he remembered a night a few weeks ago at Balthazar’s. Red hair, fine satin and lace—this must be...

“Ah, _desolee, mon cherie_! Lord Milton, may I present Abigail, Lady Donn, my patroness and dear friend.”

Castiel bowed low, while Lady Donn curtseyed gracefully.

"Pleased to finally meet you, Lord Milton. I believe you've been in town for a few months now." Her voice was pleasant, as though she were reading poetry rather than speaking plainly.

"A short while, my lady, yes," Castiel said, wondering how on earth Balthazar had become associated with her. Her bright red hair was swept up and curls cascaded from under a lacy bonnet. It was the crafty look in her eye that Castiel was acutely aware of, though. And he suspected that he was at the center of whatever she was up to, or at least one of her intended targets.

Castiel felt a hand on the small of his back. He turned, startled, to find Dean standing there.

“Is everything well? I thought I heard my name,” Dean said, pitched mainly for Castiel’s ears.

“Ah, here he is, Milton. Monsieur Winchester, Milton here is your greatest supporter. What was it, Milton? ‘Men of Letters’ finest?’”

Castiel could feel the blood rushing to his face—he must be pink to his roots. He straightened his back and said, without looking at Dean, “Yes, I did say something to that effect.”

Dean chuckled, somewhat nervously, Castiel thought. “Lud, thanks, Milton.” He turned to Lady Donn, bowing to her. "My lady."

"Good afternoon, Mister Winchester," Lady Donn said, her voice rich and warm. "I understand you pair are on the trail of this serial killer besieging our city? The Watch are at quite a loss, I believe?"

Dean stepped in to answer, smooth and sure. “Yes indeed, my lady. We’re working on it. Please excuse me, I need to fetch more drinks.” He glanced at Castiel as he turned to leave, and Castiel nodded to him.

Lady Donn zeroed in on Castiel. “Any leads yet, Lord Milton? There seem to have been so many deaths now. It’s quite frightening to be out in town!”

“Do not fear,” Castiel replied hurriedly. Dealing with civilians was something he hadn’t ever had to do before starting with the Men of Letters, but he’d watched Dean in action enough now that he felt he could bluff his way through. “We have the situation in hand. It won’t be long until the villain is found and brought to justice.”

Lady Donn’s face broke into a wide smile, and she reached forward to place a gloved hand on Castiel’s forearm. “That is good to hear, thank you,” she said, almost purring at him in her contentment. “I trust you’ll be more careful than your colleague, Mister Sinclair was.” The stone around her neck gleamed in the bright afternoon light, as though it were reflecting differently to the rubies and sapphires on her ringed fingers.

Castiel asked, “You were acquainted with Mister Sinclair?”

“We met once or twice,” she replied, a twinkle in her eye that Castiel found unsettling. He sincerely hoped she wasn’t hoping to pursue him romantically.

He nodded uncomfortably. “The murders have been frequent, but we are being as careful as we can, my lady.”

Stepping back a little to rejoin the circle, she said, “Tell me, though, you must have seen many horrors in your time at war. Were you not at Salamanca, where my poor husband met his end, long after the battle there?”

Castiel swallowed heavily. He’d heard of the supposed horrors visited on men who had been captured at Salamanca. The rumors suggested those unfortunate souls had been dragged away with the retreating French and beaten, left to starve in whatever hole they’d hidden in next. Castiel hadn’t been present himself—he’d only been in Spain for a few months at that stage, deployed elsewhere.

He took a breath, stepping back slightly to give himself some space. “I was not, my lady. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”

“Ah, it was long ago now,” she replied, waving a hand in the air.

Colonel Ketch seemed to have sensed Castiel’s hesitation. “You were in San Sebastián, though, were you not?”

Why, oh why, did everyone suddenly want to know about bloody San Sebastián? Castiel frowned. “Yes, I was there during the second siege. It was...an unpleasant affair I do not enjoy recalling.” He clenched his fist beside his thigh, trying to calm the shaking that had begun.

“I heard the soldiers sacked and burned the town afterwards. Must have been some loot to be had, eh?” Colonel Ketch’s face was twisted into an ugly sneer, and Castiel knew, had Ketch been there, he would have been one of those riotous infantrymen, drinking and killing their way across the town, grabbing women roughly as they screamed…

He shook his head sharply, realizing his breath had quickened again. He needed…he needed Dean, but Dean was not nearby. He needed to get outside.

“No,” he managed to bite out, “I was not present, nor do I think glorifying such acts is worthy of any of us.” He nodded to the ladies. “Please excuse me, I’d like to take some fresh air.”

He headed for the doors to the garden, not heeding the concerned calls of the others in his party, cursing his weakness and the damned war that had broken him.

As soon as Dean saw the stiffening of Castiel’s shoulders, he knew. He didn’t even need to wait to observe his uncomfortably swift exit from the circle of discussion close by; Dean knew it was coming. Why must people be so damnably obsessed with the war? Were there not enough horrors in daily life as it was? He inclined his head summarily to the group of ladies that Lady Shurley—Anna, she insisted, though Dean felt he didn’t know enough of her for that—held court with, their fans a-fluttering.

“Please,” Dean said, bowing low and graceful, “do excuse me. I must take my leave of you all for a moment. I’m certain such fine young ladies will have no lack of company, however.”

They tittered and laughed in that way that had grown increasingly more irritating to Dean each year as he grew older. He struggled to keep his charming smile across his face but believed he managed—up until Anna reached to gently tap at his forearm on his exit.

“Mister Winchester, are you well?”

“At this party, exceedingly,” he answered easily, before seeing the genuine concern that was held behind the younger redhead’s carefully calm expression. He squeezed her arm back in turn. “Please, don’t be concerned. I must go after your brother.”

“Ahh,” she exclaimed softly, a gentle smile blooming across her face. “I see how it is. Of course, go to him then. If he has ducked out of company, I guarantee you he’s hidden in the gardens somewhere. No matter where we resided, he’s had that habit ever since he was a child.”

Dean certainly hoped that Anna did not see how it was—that Dean wanted to go after Castiel and check on him as far more than a concerned colleague. Her expression, though, held no disapproval, only a strangely grateful and warm smile. Dean took his leave of her quickly, not wanting to leave Castiel alone with whatever horrific memories or thoughts someone had so thoughtlessly brought to the forefront of his mind.

The gardens of Benedict House were stunning, no doubt about it, and expansive. Dean knew that Castiel would have headed immediately to wherever there were the least people, so he could wrestle with his personal demons in peace. Dean’s chest was tight with upset as he strode through lanes of high hedges, searching. People could be so cruel, he thought hotly, to men like Castiel, if their weakness was discovered. To call it a weakness in the first place was, to Dean’s mind, utterly abhorrent. Telling someone to “pull it together, man!” and continue on with life was a strange form of torture that Dean virulently disapproved of.

His father had called it weakness. It had taken Dean many years, into adulthood with Bobby and Ellen as his role models, to unlearn some of the callous ways he’d been raised in.

Dean himself had seen far too many horrific things over his years as a Lettersman, had been forced into so many dark deeds for the greater good. He knew exactly how such events stayed with you. How they crept up on you and tortured you when you least expected them. For Dean, it was usually in the form of vivid nightmares, as choking and convincing as if they were real. Every man had their ghosts, and every man dealt with them in their own way. Some drank, or turned to the opium den, or worse. But they never spoke about it, and that had lost Dean more than one person in his life over the years.

Bypassing a small maze—Castiel had been in a hurry; it was unlikely he’d have walked there—Dean headed further away from the house, leaving the sounds of the party behind. The quietest area of the capacious grounds seemed to be a small, walled-off rose garden to the west of the property, next to a stone mausoleum and a selection of graves that remembered previous occupants of the fine house. It hadn’t been decorated for the party, no ribbons or candles set about, and no guests seemed to be walking that way—there, then, Dean decided, was where Castiel had likely gone.

When he spotted him, Castiel was sitting on a stone bench at one end of the rose garden, backed into an arched nook with slightly overgrown foliage. He leaned forward, his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, and he didn’t look up as Dean approached.

Dean didn’t know what to do.

Oh, he knew what he _longed_ to do…to kneel before Castiel on the smooth-pebbled gravel and pull him forward, wrap his arms around Castiel’s broad shoulders and tell him that he _knows_ , and he _understands_ , and it’s _alright._

But instead, he clenched his fists briefly before releasing them, and lowered himself down to the bench beside Castiel. It was only when he reached over, carefully placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, that Castiel reacted—jumping, flinching back, and gasping.

Dean shushed him quietly, holding up his hands. “Just me, Cas,” he said softly.

Castiel’s eyes widened, taking in Dean sitting beside him, before his shoulders slumped and fell. He looked defeated, turning his eyes down to the stones at their feet. “I suppose it was foolish to think that I could hide the extent of my weakness from you for much longer,” he confessed to the toes of his boots.

Frowning, Dean ducked his head forward, trying to catch Castiel’s eyes. “I know we got off on rather the wrong foot, Cas, but surely you don’t think that little of me?”

As Castiel looked back up and blinked, Dean saw that his eyes were glassier and shinier than usual, but he did Castiel the favor of not mentioning it. “Do—do you not understand what’s happening?” Castiel asked, his voice all disbelief. “What happens to me, against my will, when—”

“Hey, now,” Dean said quietly, reaching to grasp Castiel’s hand as it rose through the air, beginning a sweeping gesture of disbelief. “Do _you_ not understand, Cas? Do you really think that this is something new to me? That in this life I haven’t met many men with maladies like yours? That I haven’t myself seen things that, even now, if I were to think of them, would leave me a wreck? Come on, now. Don’t think that of me, please.”

His cheeks burning humiliation red, Castiel’s eyes turned back to the ground. “Then you know that I am weak, and feeble.”

Alone in the rose garden, Dean threw propriety away. Perhaps he couldn’t comfort Castiel the way he truly wished to, and kiss that misery from his face, but he would help his friend however he saw fit, the society beyond the bushes be damned.

Dean slid from the bench, kneeling down into the gravel before Castiel where he sat on the carved stone seat. His trousers would be dusty and gray when he rose, but it was hardly a concern for now.

“Cas,” Dean said gently, reaching out and resting his palms on Castiel’s knees as he ducked forward, trying to force Castiel to look up at him again. After a long, uncomfortable second, he finally did. Dean reached forward then, pulling Castiel’s hands into his lap, holding them, his thumbs tracing small circles atop Castiel’s knuckles. “I don’t believe that,” Dean said. “I believe that the troubles you have now tell the tale of a brave man, who saw things and had to do things that no man should. The men who can’t deal with that reality, who would rather shush you and tell you to not acknowledge it, they are the feeble ones.”

Castiel let out a throaty gasp, though whether it was at Dean’s words or his entirely inappropriate positioning as he knelt before Castiel on the ground, Dean wasn’t certain. Castiel grasped Dean’s hands back tightly, regardless.

Several long minutes passed, frozen, as Dean clung to Castiel and Castiel clung right back.

Eventually, as Castiel breathed, Dean cleared his throat.

“I get nightmares,” he offered quietly, blinking up at Castiel slowly. It was…uncomfortable to share. But after the months they’d worked and fought and researched side by side, Dean trusted Castiel. And if he wanted Castiel to trust him in turn, he had to show him. “Even now, I wake up from dreams of things I’ve done, things I’ve seen. I relive deaths that I feel responsible for, every night behind my eyelids.”

“Your previous partner, before me,” Castiel said, his eyes rising to meet Dean’s, somewhat of a challenge.

Dean nodded slowly. “Benny. His name was Benny.”

“What happened to him?” Castiel croaked quietly, barely above a whisper.

“He became…a vampire. He was bitten. In the end, he…” For the first time in the conversation, Dean dropped his eyes away. He looked downward, studying a crease in the knee of Castiel’s trouser leg as he sat on the bench, focusing on the way the fabric folded. “He begged me to end it,” Dean said eventually. “To not let him become everything we’d spent our lives fighting against.”

“And you did,” Castiel said, far more gently than Dean deserved. “You killed him.”

“Eventually,” Dean whispered back. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it, at first. And then he…he started hurting others. He couldn’t help it; it was his nature, then. Other people were hurt and died because of my weakness. So, don’t think that you deserve to be labeled feeble, Cas, because you do not.”

Dean and Castiel’s eyes locked for a long moment before Castiel spoke again.

“The conditions over there in Spain, Dean, the things I saw, the things I had to _do_ …” Castiel paused, moistening his lips. “I’ve never spoken of them to anyone. But perhaps, if…”

He sounded so fearful that Dean’s heart broke, and it was all he could do to cling on tighter to Castiel’s fingers and not raise his hand up, not cup his cheek, not press his fingers under his jaw, not rub a thumb under his haunted eyes. Because, Dean knew somehow, that if he did that, he was done. If he touched Castiel’s face, comforted him in the way that he wanted to, so intimately…there was no coming back from that.

So, Dean gulped, instead, and merely nodded. “Anytime, Cas,” he murmured. “You want to talk, we can talk. You don’t want to talk, just need to leave…that too. Just tell me. Let me help.”

Castiel’s nod was slow in coming, but everything in Dean’s chest finally began to relax when he saw it.

Dean smiled, just a little, letting Castiel take his time.

“You really are, you know,” Castiel murmured after another moment, before pulling in a sharp, calming breath, filling his lungs with it before puffing it out slowly. He met Dean’s gaze square, a nervous caution to his tone as he clarified. “The Men of Letters’ finest.”

Dean could feel the heat prickling behind his ears and at the back of his neck, but he couldn’t look away from Castiel’s gaze: thankful, earnest, hopeful…something more? Moistening his lips with a slow flick of his tongue, Dean huffed out a slightly disbelieving sound, still stuck on Castiel’s eyes. “Well,” he said, low, “I have a pretty fine partner.”

The air between them was _terrifyingly_ charged, and Dean couldn’t help but be just the teensiest, tiniest bit relieved when an unearthly growl shattered the silence of the rose garden.

Dean stumbled, pulling his hands back from Castiel’s, only to have to grab one of them again instantaneously as Castiel helped to haul him up off the ground. Dean’s knees were uncomfortable and strangely prickly from the gravel, but he had no time to care—in the small graveyard that the roses bordered, a woman lurched around the corner of the mausoleum.

She was dressed in very fashionable, well pressed clothes, her soft cream dress with long, _la mamelouk_ sleeves was clean and neat, and if it hadn’t been for the horrific angry noises she made and her shiny, wholly black eyes, it would have been easy to mistake her for just another party guest, lost in the gardens.

Simultaneously, Dean and Castiel both ran toward the woman. Her expression came straight from one of Sam’s books back at HQ; there was nothing else a beast with eyes like that could be. They had to cut her off, prevent her from heading through the rose garden and getting to the civilians at the party.

“What do we—” Dean began, his hands going to his hips automatically to find his pistol belt and ammunition pouch, but finding, of course, empty space. Men of Letters were always technically on duty, but even so, a garden party at the home of his friend’s sister was not the place to come dressed in weaponry.

“Dean!” Castiel grabbed Dean’s upper arm, pulling him close for a second as he dug around in the inner pocket of his jacket.

“Cas, what are you—”

From within, Castiel pulled out a stoppered glass vial of thick oil, and a small book of matches. He looked so ridiculously proud of himself that it was all Dean could do not to laugh, grab his cheeks, and kiss him, then and there.

 _Good god, man,_ Dean thought to himself as he clapped Castiel gleefully on the shoulder. _Get a bloody hold of yourself._

The growling, hissing, _barking_ demon-woman advanced slowly, far less rabid than her rotting counterparts, despite the cacophony of noises that she made.

“Lettersmen,” she rumbled, low and alien, the voice within clearly not her own.

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look, both of them silently counting, before they darted forward. Dean threw himself bodily at the woman, pushing his weight toward her shoulders and knocking her back at the same time as Castiel dove in low, sweeping out his leg and cutting her ankles out from beneath her.

“Now, Cas!” Dean hollered, scrabbling to keep the creature’s shoulders down, keep it grounded.

Castiel sprang up, popping the cork from the top of his vial of holy oil as he did.

The woman howled, but the sound turned into a deep, disturbingly throaty laugh that boomed eerily from within her chest. “Humans,” she rasped. “You have no idea what’s coming for you…you can’t even handle one of us!”

With a fleshy _smack_ , Dean jabbed forward, silencing the demon momentarily with a solid punch to the side of her jaw. It might not have been a Jackson’s approved move, but it felt strangely satisfying. Until the hell beast turned to fix its dead black eyes on him, anyway.

A hiss broke from its lungs, and it reached up and slammed its hand into Dean’s throat. Pushing him clear of her shoulders in one swoop, the demon held Dean clear above her in the air, arm extended, and barked her unearthly, echoing laugh at him once more.

Dean let go of her shoulders to grasp at his throat, clawing at her hands desperately as air quickly grew short. Pain flared. He developed an instant headache as her grip tightened, and lightning shocks of agony throbbed through his neck. Muscles crunched.

He tried to gasp out for Castiel; he couldn’t make a sound.

“Let him go!” Castiel roared, and Dean heard him—thankfully, god, thankfully—strike a match.

The beast let out a roaring _SHRIEK,_ and Dean’s rapidly darkening vision became a flurry of movement as he was tossed through the air. His limbs flailed like a worn ragdoll, arms and legs hanging on by mere fabric as he was discarded, playtime over.

Flames roared, brightening the edges of Dean’s vision, and then there were hands, rolling him onto his back, frantically dragging him upright.

The demonic laughing wouldn’t stop.

As Dean’s body sucked in air and his eyesight cleared, he saw her couched in the midst of the circle of flame that Castiel had created, the oil burning well on the graveled floor. The demon’s face twisted hellishly, but its ebony, unnatural eyes never left Dean and Castiel where they were both on the ground, Castiel cradling Dean's heavy limbs.

“You can send me away,” it hissed, low and far too calm, “but it isn’t going to help you. She’s going to let us _all_ out, fools. All of us!”

With that, the woman’s head snapped back at a catastrophic angle—it might have forced Dean to wince if he didn’t already feel like his own neck had been given that same treatment—and her jaw ripped wide—far, far too wide, the skin of her face turning papery and thin as foggy, black smoke erupted from her throat.

With a roaring sound like a building wind, the smoke circled above them just once before shooting off over the fields beyond the house.

The woman hit the ground with a _thump_ , prone, gray, and dead.

Dean’s head swam and everything seemed too bright, but the oxygen reaching his lungs tasted so sweet he couldn’t complain. Castiel was in his face, his thick, dark brows drawn together in worry as his hands pressed to Dean’s neck, shaking.

“Dean, are you alright?” he begged, his thumbs smoothing over what Dean could only imagine were blooming bruises and red scratches from the woman’s nails. “Say something, please!”

“I’m alright,” Dean rasped out through his battered vocal chords. He reached up, grasping at Castiel’s wrists, stilling his worrying hands. “Promise. Good. Just need a moment to breathe.”

Castiel withdrew.

It felt like a loss, and while he hoped his face didn’t show it, Dean didn’t yet have quite enough breath in him to care. He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on his bent knees, and watched as Castiel stood and walked the few feet over to the still-smoldering circle of flame, stamping it out.

He stayed there for a minute, putting space between them. For a strange moment, Dean was no longer sure who the space was for, exactly.

Dragging in slow puffs of air and letting them back out gently, Dean massaged at his throat. “That wasn’t exactly the trap we were hoping for,” he commented, his eyes lingering on the steaming gravel where the flames had been.

“No,” Castiel agreed. “It wasn’t. But it did confirm some things.”

“Such as?”

“That they can be trapped that way, for one. And that we’re right in all our early assumptions: this is an organized effort, there’s nothing coincidental happening here. Someone is drawing these beasts up from hell, and they intend to summon more of them—many more, it sounds—at some point in the near future.”

“She,” Dean said, blinking, as he broke his gaze away from the smoke to look up at Castiel.

Castiel’s head tilted slightly, before stepping over to offer Dean a polite hand up from the floor. If his fingers lingered a few seconds longer than needed once Dean was on his feet, neither of them mentioned it.

Dean cleared his throat cautiously, wincing as he did so. “The demon referred to a ‘she’. That cuts our suspects down significantly, does it not?”

Understanding dawned across the ocean of Castiel’s eyes. “Yes! Quite right. So, a woman, associated with Balthazar’s club in some way. A maid, or cook, perhaps?”

Dean nodded his agreement, while reaching up to straighten his cravat as best he could to cover the state of his neck. He spared a thought for Cuthbert Sinclair: he may not have liked the man much, but it seemed he’d been very wrong to automatically suspect him of being the one to start all this, after all.

“A woman. So, Balthazar himself is out, then,” Castiel continued, musing.

“Are you sure about that?” Dean quipped wickedly.

Castiel stifled a small laugh, reaching across to assist Dean with his deep green waistcoat, rather more familiar than either of them commented on. “His tendency toward pageantry, histrionics, and makeup come merely from him being French,” Castiel said, clearly amused. “Though perhaps we shouldn’t assume.”

Dean couldn’t help but grin as he slapped Castiel on the shoulder. “Enough, from us both, I think. Let’s move this poor lady out behind the mausoleum, so that no unexpecting partygoers will trip over her.”

“Yes, good idea,” Castiel said, straightening his jacket and moving across to the fallen form of the possessed lady—possibly even one of the partygoers, Dean realized sadly.

“Strange, isn’t it,” Dean mused, “that one of them appeared this far out of the city?”

Castiel nodded as they hefted the woman’s already discolored body away to the graveyard, lifting her feet as Dean took her head. “It is. Something must have drawn it here. Here’s hoping it wasn’t us,” he said, his tone going for lighthearted but missing by a mile.

“Indeed,” Dean answered solemnly. “Though, there are several of the club members here. We should ask your sister for her guest list, perhaps.”

Agreeing, Castiel fell into step beside Dean as they headed back up toward Benedict House. “If you want to go and get in the carriage,” Castiel said, keeping his voice low, “I can make our excuses to my sister.”

Between his filthy suit and battered neck, Dean knew that was best, and they needed to get back to London and tell Bobby what had happened immediately. But even so, Dean felt a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry to cut short your time with your sister, Cas. This wasn’t supposed to be the plan for today. If you wish, I can ride ahead, and you could stay with her here.”

Castiel fixed Dean with a look that said he’d be doing no such thing, the state Dean was in. Instead, he politely dipped his head, and moved away to find Anna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _le charmant_ \- the charming  
>  _desolee, mon cherie_ \- I am sorry, my dear


	6. Chapter 6

The ride back to Great Queen Street was tense and felt like hours to Castiel. Worse, the closer they got to HQ, the more the evening traffic increased, until they were crawling along near Covent Garden.

Dean hadn’t said much on the drive back. He looked as exhausted as Castiel felt, after their emotionally draining conversation, followed by the fight with the demon. But it was imperative that they check in with Bobby before they do anything else. They’d called on the city watch to take care of the woman’s corpse in the garden—they’d seen the demon with their own eyes, this time, so there was no use in examining her any further.

And poor Anna! Having one of her own party guests murdered had rather put a stop to the rest of the gathering, and they’d all hurried to call their carriages after consoling one another with extra glasses of punch, while Castiel hurried out to join Dean in their carriage.

Castiel’s mind spiralled with all the day’s happenings as he stared out the window without seeing the passing buildings. The talk of war, armies mobilizing—he shied away from those thoughts, even if Dean had said he shouldn’t be ashamed of how his time abroad had afflicted him. Instead, he wondered at Dean’s previous partner, Benny. The one who had become a vampire and Dean had ended up having to kill. He wondered how close Dean had been to Benny, whether they were as close as Castiel had become with Dean. How much it might hurt if Dean became a monster and Castiel was forced to kill him to protect the city. How it might break Dean to have to do it to him, instead.

When he looked at Dean, sitting on the opposite bench seat, he was looking back at Castiel, a melancholy expression on his face. He glanced away towards the opposite window when their gazes met, and Castiel wondered what thoughts were going through his mind, not for the first time today.

Back at headquarters, the building was quiet. Most of the office staff had left for the day, but thankfully, when they sent word upstairs to Bobby, he was still in his office.

Dean knocked politely on the closed door once they reached it, and at a voice from within, he opened it. Castiel could see Bobby rising from his desk, and sitting in one of the chairs opposite it, a middle-aged, dark skinned woman Castiel hadn’t met before.

“Mrs. Moseley,” Dean said warmly as he entered the room, and the lady rose from her seat to curtsey to him.

“Dean, lovely to see you, my dove.” Mrs. Moseley smiled very familiarly, then looked at Castiel.

“Mrs. Moseley, this is our new Lord Milton, Castiel,” Singer said. “Castiel, Missouri Moseley is a trusted advisor to the Men of Letters.”

“How do you do?” Castiel asked, with a small bow.

“I’m all the better for seeing you boys, that’s for sure,” Mrs. Moseley said, eyeing both of them. “I’ve got some news for you, and I do not think you’re going to like it.”

“We also have news,” Dean said, sharing a glance with Castiel.

“Very well, come on in, then,” said Singer, waving his hand at the still-open door behind Castiel. He hurried to close it, while Dean fetched another chair from against the other wall so they could all be seated.

“What in the hell happened to you two? I wasn’t expecting you back here so soon. Weren’t you attending a garden party today?” Singer asked, his forehead wrinkling as he looked up and down at the dishevelled state of their clothes. Dean, especially, was covered in bruises, dust and dirt, after he’d been thrown around by the demon in the garden.

How Singer managed to keep track of everyone’s social whereabouts within the organization had been a mystery to Castiel for weeks now. The man didn’t seem to keep any written records, and yet he always seemed to know exactly what each member’s schedule was like.

“Yes, at Lord Shurley’s house at Twickenham,” Castiel explained. “But we ran into some...some trouble.” He glanced at Dean, not sure how much they should reveal with company present.

“We caught a demon, Bobby,” Dean said, without hesitation. Castiel glanced at Mrs. Moseley, but she merely raised one eyebrow in surprise.

Singer, on the other hand, was less restrained. “You did what, now?”

“It got away again,” Dean added.

Castiel gathered his wits enough to take over again. “We discovered a woman, obviously possessed, in the garden of my sister’s house, thankfully away from the other guests. It attacked us, and we trapped it in a ring of holy fire.”

“But it spoke to us,” Dean added. “It laughed at us, Bobby.”

Castiel fought down a shudder at the memory of that chilling, gurgling laugh, and the way it had barked out the guttural words. “It said, ‘She will let us all out.’”

Bobby shared a glance with Mrs. Moseley, eyebrows raised. “That fits with your vision,” he said to her. “But who is _'she'?_ ”

“I didn’t see anyone in the vision except these two boys,” Mrs. Moseley said with a shrug.

“I beg pardon, but you saw us in a vision?” Dean asked, surprised.

Mrs. Moseley took a breath, looking intently at Castiel for a moment. “I am blessed, or perhaps cursed, with what the mystics term ‘clairvoyance.’ I have visions, sometimes, of things that have already happened, or things that may come to pass. Sometimes they never happen, but other times…” She glanced at Bobby. “Sometimes they come on so strongly, I feel compelled to bring them to Mister Singer.”

“What exactly were we doing in this vision, Mrs. Moseley?” Castiel asked, wholly unsurprised that the Men of Letters had clairvoyants on its payroll, considering everything else he’d seen in the last few months.

Mrs. Moseley looked keenly at him. “There was a great darkness about to sweep over the world. You two,” she nodded to Dean as well, “were holding it back.”

“Darkness?” Dean asked nervously. “Cas, the smoke we saw when the demon left that body?”

“‘She will let us all out…’” Castiel murmured. He turned to Bobby, not sure if he’d heard of their breakthrough about the body locations yet. “The demons have been appearing along ley lines. Someone has been summoning them, but _she_ —whoever that may be—is about to summon _all_ of them.”

Castiel turned to Dean, taking in his ashen face. Dean said to Mrs. Moseley, trying to make light, “I suppose your vision didn’t have any helpful information on timing, did it?”

“No,” Mrs. Mosely said with a grimace. “But it’s believed that the walls between worlds are thinnest at solstices—and midsummer is only a fortnight away. My best guess would be then.”

“When is midsummer? The twenty-first of June, I believe,” Singer said, flipping through papers on his desk in front of him. “But where is this summoning likely to be performed?”

“It could be anywhere, I suppose, but we should take another look at that ley line map,” Castiel said, turning back to Dean.

Dean nodded. “And start going through lists of Lady Shurley’s party guests, and any women who are associated with Balthazar’s club, staff or otherwise.”

Castiel sighed, lifting a hand to rub at his eyes. They had two weeks to find out who was responsible for the appearance of the demons and work out how to stop them from summoning enough of them to take over the world. He hadn’t signed up for this much pressure when he’d agreed to join the Men of Letters.

Bobby shuffled back from the desk and got to his feet. “That can wait for tomorrow. Why don’t you boys go get some rest? We’ll make a plan of action in the morning.”

“Great idea,” Dean said, as the rest of them stood up as well. “Thank you, Mrs. Moseley.”

“You know you can call me Missouri, dear. And you’re welcome. Good luck.”

Castiel echoed Dean’s thanks to Mrs. Moseley, then said, “Mister Singer,” nodding to the man.

“Just get a bloody move on with this, please,” Singer said gruffly. “People are dying out there.”

Exchanging a dark look, Castiel and Dean turned to leave the room and head back downstairs.

Dean sniffed at his coat as they headed out into the street. “I smell like a werewolf’s armpit,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “Those demons sure do a quick job of decaying people.”

“And yet, some are hardly touched,” Castiel mused. “Some bodies seem to take to the possession more easily, perhaps.”

“At this point, I do not care. I need to be in that showerbath post-haste,” Dean said with a wry chuckle.

They hurried to the apartments in Sackville Street and Castiel bid farewell to Dean at the showerbath door. Castiel had no particular wish to share the bathing chamber with Dean again for fear he’d embarrass himself, and he was sure relief passed across Dean’s face when he said he would retire to his rooms. Dean was the one who’d caught the brunt of the fighting, after all.

But Castiel’s rooms, when he reached them, were large and distractingly empty. He changed, wiping himself down with a damp washcloth before carefully dressing in his shirt and waistcoat for dinner once again, but ended up sending for his dinner instead of calling for Andrews to help him with his tailcoat for the dining room. He couldn’t face pleasantries with other people, tonight. His nerves were on high alert, and he paced his room restlessly, too anxious to lie down and try to rest, but too exhausted to do anything else.

He wondered if Dean had the same affliction—thoughts whirling, unable to focus. The last time he’d been like this had been that night after the sack of San Sebastián, that blight on the landscape and on his soul. The talk of the siege once again today still weighed heavily on his mind.

He’d seen such horrors that day—tried to stop them, but as the victorious British soldiers had drunk their way through the town’s brandy stores, then swarmed through the streets, taking their “revenge” for the heavy losses during the siege of the city, he’d been powerless to stop them. Women, screaming as they ran from men who would rape them, children crying in the streets, fires devouring homes and businesses.

The smoke was in his throat all over again, the tears streaming from his eyes as he fell to his knees on the Persian rug and covered his head with his arms. The crack of gunfire, the boom of artillery, the smell of sulfur and unwashed men and blood…

Castiel wasn’t aware of the knocking on his door, wasn’t even aware anyone had opened it until there was a hand on his shoulder, a warm arm circling his back and pulling him into a broad chest.

A sob escaped him as he realized it was Dean. Dean had come to his aid, as he so often did. He did not deserve such a friend, Castiel thought bitterly, and he tried to push Dean away, but Dean pulled him back in, rubbing his palm across Castiel’s back. Castiel let out another choked sob as he tried to let the memories go, turning his face into Dean’s shoulder and taking deep breaths. He would regret this later, but for now he took the offered comfort and tried to let it calm him.

Dean was murmuring above him, “I’m sorry, Cas. I should never have left you alone after a day like this. All’s well, you’re not there anymore. We’re safe here.”

That sentiment was debatable after the day they’d just had, and Castiel chuckled a little, despite himself. He reluctantly pulled back, wiping both hands across his face and keeping his eyes cast down. He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to look Dean in the eye for a few days after this.

“Cas, it’s fine. As I said earlier, I don’t mind if you fall apart now and then. Shows you’re human.”

He could hear the smile in Dean’s voice, and he lifted his face, only to be humiliated by a tear spilling over. He dashed it from his cheek and looked away again, shuffling to his feet despite his cramping knees. “Thank you, Dean. My apologies, once again. I just—” he caught his breath, while he gathered his thoughts, remembering that Dean had given him permission to share them, “—I went back there. To S-San Sebastián.”

Dean’s small inhalation of surprise wasn’t lost on Castiel. He’d discovered that the events following the siege had been mostly shielded from public knowledge back in Britain, but there was a chance the Men of Letters had kept abreast of the real intelligence. Dean didn’t pry, though.

Gently, he said, “If you would like to, go and wash your face. We’ll call Andrews and get your coat. I was also feeling restless tonight, and came to see if you’d like to accompany me on a walk through the park.”

Castiel took a deep breath, feeling his heart begin to beat less furiously. How was Dean able to calm him so effectively? “I’d like that. Thank you, again.”

A half-hour later, the two men strolled down the Strand, top hats and tailcoats back in place. Castiel had always liked St. James’ Park on his previous visits to London, and he’d taken his morning constitutional this way many mornings since his return. At this time of the evening, though, it was much more busy.

Castiel took a deep breath, trying to shake away the last of his malaise from earlier. The low evening sun still shone across the park, long stripes of light and shade cast across the grass by the trees. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, the women with closed parasols in their hands and bonnets tightly on their heads against the cool breeze that was blowing up from the river. Excited children fed ducks and other birds that swam in the long canal that bisected the park, and other groups of people took their walks and enjoyed the summer evening.

Dean and Castiel were still supposed to be socializing with Anna and her flock, so this was a welcome consolation after having to leave the party so early. They walked along the gravel path, gloved hands nearly brushing as their arms swung close. Castiel felt Dean’s presence like a steady heat at his side, as though he were a flower drawn to turn his face towards Dean’s light. He ached to be able to reach out and take Dean’s hand, but instead, snatched it away when they accidentally brushed again.

“The park is looking uncommonly well this evening,” Dean remarked, and Castiel turned to him, surprised.

“I suppose you do not come walking here all that often, then. It’s been like this since the chestnuts came back into leaf!” Castiel said, laughing.

Dean grinned. “It’s good to see you smile again, man.”

Castiel looked away, feeling heat rise to his cheeks. “The fresh air must be doing me good,” he allowed. “Couldn’t possibly be the company.” He grinned, casting his glance sideways to see Dean stick out his bottom lip.

“I believe I am adorable,” he muttered, then shoved Castiel’s shoulder so that he stumbled sideways with a laugh.

They walked on, dodging some children kicking a leather ball across the path, when Dean said, “Ah, look, I could do with something to eat before supper.”

“You are always hungry, Dean!” Castiel admonished, but followed him to a cart not far away where a woman was selling roasted nuts for tuppence. Castiel was reminded of the dinner he’d sent for back in his room—he supposed it would be waiting for him when he returned.

Munching contentedly on his hazelnuts, Dean led Castiel along the gravel path across the large green. The sun had dropped a little further, and light shone out underneath clouds above the park, streaking the sky with orange and pink. The splash of color, with the greens of early summer below, filled Castiel with gratitude for being alive and here in this moment—something he’d scarcely felt since he left England for war all those years ago.

“Dean?” he asked, his face still turned to the sky.

Dean replied with a “Hm?” as he placed the packet of nuts inside his coat pocket.

Castiel turned to look at him. “Thank you, for what you did earlier, for coming to my aid—and for being so understanding of my...moods.”

Dean turned towards Castiel, a small smile about his features. “As your friend,” he said quietly, “it would be unkind of me to do otherwise.”

Castiel returned his smile, something warm expanding in his chest at the brightness in Dean’s eyes. He really did have beautiful eyes, even in the fading daylight. He wanted more than anything to be able to touch Dean, even just hold his hand. Even the idea of it sent a shiver up his spine, the delicious anticipation of even the slightest touch had been driving him mad for weeks.

He could not be wrong about this, could he? The looks they exchanged, the way Dean flushed up the back of his neck when he spoke to Castiel sometimes...Dean was feeling it, too—he had to be. Dean’s smile emboldened him. He had to know whether his regard was returned.

As he opened his mouth to ask Dean, he felt a drop of water on his cheek, then, when he looked up, more across his face. How had they been surprised by a shower like this? Castiel shared a startled glance with Dean, and they both turned to look around them. There was no shelter—they were out in the middle of the park, but they both headed at a run for the large row of trees lining a road along the southern end of the park—Castiel thought he’d heard it called Birdcage Walk. As they struck out running across the grass, Castiel grabbed his hat off his head just as the rain began to hammer down in earnest, cold and soaking, running down the back of Castiel’s coat and plastering his hair to his forehead. He watched Dean tuck his own hat under his arm to try to protect it.

Ducking under the trees, Castiel soon discovered they were no shelter at all—the rainwater simply filtered down through the leaves and dripped in fat drops onto them still. The buildings alongside the edge of the park weren’t far away, though, and Castiel grabbed Dean by the hand, since that was the nearest part of him, and tugged him in that direction. He found it hard to see in the dim twilight with the rain running into his eyes, but Castiel was sure he saw Dean smile. In any case, rather than drop his hand once they started moving, Dean gripped it tightly as they ran the remaining distance to the buildings, and Castiel’s heart sang the entire way.

The ground floor was lined with shops, with what looked like apartments above, but the few gas lamps along the street here meant that the area was dark and quiet, and the shops were closed.

Dean did drop Castiel’s hand once they reached the narrow shelter in front of the doorway of the shop, but to get out of the downpour they both had to cram under the overhang in the narrow space, Castiel’s back hard against the brick wall beside the shop’s door, and Dean nearly crushing him from where he stood on the front step.

Being so close to Dean as the rain beat down was both stifling and intoxicating. The rain had enhanced not only the smell of the wet leaves on the grass and the pleasant tang of petrichor, but the spicy leather smell that Castiel had come to associate with Dean and calm and comfort was almost overwhelming. He pulled at his linen cravat, feeling like it was choking him. Untying it, he pulled it loose and mopped his face with it, wiping the rain out of his eyes.

He glanced up at Dean in the dim light cast from the few lamps nearby. Dean watched him intently from just a few inches away, his lips parted.

Castiel stayed very still as Dean reached up one hand and gently smoothed a curl away from Castiel’s forehead with two white-gloved fingers. Dean’s eyes followed his own movement, then dropped back to Castiel’s with a gaze like lightning, like fire.

Dean leaned in, and their lips met, and the world melted away.

Castiel lifted his hand where he carried his cravat, cursing the layers of fabric between them, but grabbed the back of Dean’s neck anyway and kissed him more deeply, tasting the hazelnuts they’d bought earlier in the park.

Castiel spun Dean around and shoved him until his back was against the door, pressing his knee between Dean’s, who released a small groan at the friction against the front of his trousers.

A sound clattered from inside the building, and Castiel pulled back, clapping one hand over Dean’s mouth as he pressed him against the door, their eyes locked with both alarm and mirth. They dared not move—if they were discovered here, it would not only mean embarrassment for them both, but a stain on the reputation of the Men of Letters as well. Castiel removed his hand as someone emptied something from an upstairs window, making mud splash up from the path behind them, then noisily shut the window.

Castiel leaned in and gently kissed Dean, even as he knew they had to stop. Dean turned Castiel’s face to one side and kissed a trail along his jaw and down his bare neck, from under his ear, kiss by kiss, down to the collar of his linen shirt. Castiel’s breath came faster, and he tried not to make a sound, but eventually he had to push Dean back with a hand to the front of his shoulder.

Castiel rested his forehead against Dean’s, both of them breathing together in the cool dark.

“What are we doing, Cas?” Dean asked eventually, his voice barely a whisper.

Castiel could only shake his head slightly. This was a terrible idea, on so many counts. Not because he believed his attraction to men was wrong—he’d long ago come to terms with the way he was made; that was never going to change—but propriety demanded certain things of gentlemen.

“We...we can’t...” he began, but trailed off, his throat tight. He wanted nothing more than to continue what they’d started here, but he knew it could never be.

Dean put his hand under Castiel’s chin and lifted it until their eyes met again. “Why can’t we?”

Where to begin? “Well, for a start, the Men of Letters—”

“Fuck the Men of Letters!” Dean interrupted, moving his hand to rest on Castiel’s shoulder, holding him close as the rain continued to fall.

Castiel admonished him with a soft, “Dean,” putting his fingers on Dean’s lips to hush him.

But Dean continued, albeit in a quieter tone. “All I know is, I’ve wanted you from the moment you walked into my life.”

“No, Dean. Don’t say that. There are things that...that people like us will never be able to do without judgment. You deserve better than that. Our lives don’t have room for pipe dreams.”

Dean was quiet for a moment, his hand gripping Castiel’s coat tighter at the shoulder. It was too dark to make out his expression as he said, “You’re saying we can’t have this?”

Castiel felt the splintering of his own heart as he replied, “Yes, that is what I’m saying.”

Dean was quiet for a few moments, until he stepped back from Castiel, into the rain. “If that is what you want, then I shall never mention it again.”

Castiel stood as still as he could against the door. If he moved, he might crumble to pieces.

When he didn’t reply, Dean nodded. He adjusted his cravat and replaced his soaked hat upon his head. “As you wish,” he said tightly, and turned, his boots crunching off into the dark beneath the trees of the Birdcage Walk.


	7. Chapter 7

Dean stood in front of the looking glass atop the dresser in his apartments, staring at his reflection while Andrews gave his jacket one last firm go-over with a stiff, boar-bristle brush. He’d have to put on the charm tonight, he knew, if he was going to get through this ball. Unfortunately, there was really nothing he felt less like doing.

Reflected over his shoulder, Dean could see Sam lurking, trying desperately to look casual as he leaned on the door frame.

“Spit it out, Sam,” Dean called, nodding his thanks to Andrews and reaching down to adjust his cuffs around his wrists as he turned. “What thoughts are you hiding under that frightful wig?”

“You know perfectly well that this is my own hair,” Sam complained, ruffling exactly as Dean had intended.

“Really?” Dean said cattily, grinning like only an older brother could. “I thought it was one of those huge wigs that the dandies used to wear, back before they started taxing the hair powder.”

Sam rolled his eyes, pushing up off the door frame. “I was going to attempt to ask you how you were, as you’ve been in an awful mood for days and done little other than hit things in the gymnasium. Now I’m not even sure if I should.”

Mentally, Dean let out an exasperated _hrmmph._ Yes, he’d been spending a lot of time working out his frustration with a punching bag. He was lucky he hadn’t run into Castiel on the mats, given how it seemed they had that particular stress-reducing habit in common. Other than boxing, he’d been interviewing endless boring ladies without much to say for themselves, to absolutely no avail. None of the women who worked at Balthazar’s were even _slightly_ suspicious.

The interviews had, at least, helped him avoid spending much time near Castiel at all.

“Oh, definitely don’t ask, Samuel,” Dean advised, shaking his head dramatically. “Really, never ask me that kind of thing.”

“Dean,” Sam said pointedly, folding his arms.

“It’s nothing, Sam. I promise you.”

“Oh, so the fact you’re about to go off to Sir Alfred Rosen’s and spend the night socializing with Castiel, dancing the night away while exchanging barely a word—”

“That,” Dean interrupted harshly, “is most definitely _nothing.”_

Sam tightened his lips, his eyebrows moving up his substantive forehead, and Dean knew he’d risen to the bait exactly as his younger brother had expected. Dean sighed, shaking his head, and reached for his freshly brushed top hat.

“Just hope that we find a lead, please, Sam. I need some good luck, somewhere in life.”

“Very well, Dean,” Sam said quietly. He slapped Dean on the shoulder as he passed, and that was that.

The carriage ride with Castiel was quiet.

Things had been…not awkward, really, because Dean had avoided his company enough that they hadn’t had time to be. But now, sitting back together in this enclosed space, as they had so many times before, Dean could barely stand it.

As they rode out of Sackville Street, Dean could feel Castiel’s eyes on him, stealing glances whenever he could. Dean couldn’t complain or advise him against it when he was no better, though. Whenever Castiel looked out of the carriage window, his countenance haloed in setting sun, Dean was lost. He was so beautiful, to Dean’s eyes. Handsome, yes, of course, objectively speaking. But Castiel caught Dean’s attention in a way that made him _beautiful_ , and there was nothing Dean could do to change that.

Dean’s ears caught a soft, wistful sigh falling from Castiel’s lips, and he wondered how closely his thoughts were reflected by Castiel’s own.

That was what made it damnably worse, Dean decided. It was one thing to face a rejection…it was another when you knew that the object of your affections and desires did, at least on some level, return them. He couldn’t hate Castiel for it—far from it. He understood. And that was what stung the most.

The carriage slowed as they approached, caught in the traffic of such a large event. Dean leaned toward the window, seeing a line of similar vehicles to their own stretching out ahead.

“Busy, tonight,” he commented politely.

“Yes,” Castiel responded, quiet and mannerly. “I heard tell the Prince Regent himself might attend, so I’m sure every single swooning female and politically-inclined man in the city wanted to be here.”

Dean nodded, and they fell quiet again until the carriage pulled up on the curve outside the door of Sir Alfred Rosen’s impressive London home. It was swarming with people, the tall Grecian columns to either side of the entrance all but obscured by tall hats and feathered headpieces. “Ready?” he asked Castiel, receiving only a brief nod. But then, before Dean could release the handle on the carriage door, Castiel’s hand darted forward.

His gloved fingers rested on Dean’s shoulder for only a moment, brushing lightly. When Dean turned back, Castiel couldn’t even look at him, dropping his eyes along with his hands. His pink cheeks, though, told no lies. “You had, uh, a hair,” Castiel said, “on the shoulder of your jacket.”

“Thank you,” Dean murmured. And then, because there was so little point in _not_ saying it, no matter their unfortunate situation, he cleared his throat and added, “You look very handsome tonight, Cas. That outfit suits you well.”

Without waiting for any response, Dean turned and slipped out of the carriage and into the hubbub of the season. Sir Alfred Rosen, a more recent Knight of the Garter, was still desperately trying to place his abundance of daughters, so Dean had been unsurprised to hear of him hosting such a big to-do of an event. Dean merely hoped that he could get through it without having young Rebecca, “Becky,” Rosen thrust upon him. She was a sweet enough woman (who Dean had believed quite enamored with Sam, at one point), but Dean thought briefly that he would prefer to shoot himself in the foot rather than listen to her inane prattle all night, tonight. Perhaps Castiel would shoot him, if he asked very nicely. He had good aim.

“Monsieur Winchester!” came Balthazar’s heavily accented voice, approaching their carriage immediately. “And Lord Milton, of course, of course,” he greeted them both with a bow. “I shouldn’t be surprised to find you arriving together as always, _non_?”

Before Dean could open his mouth, Balthazar barreled onwards. “I jest, I jest. Of course I know that you Men of Letters always travel together. I am merely in a playful mood this fine evening, Monsieur! In fact, I already have my eye on some lovely offerings for you both, inside.”

Dean chose not to mention Balthazar’s choice of words, making the ladies of the ton sound like meat on a platter, because after these past months, he certainly knew it would do no good. He shared a slight eye roll with Castiel, which warmed his heart for at least a brief moment, before they each fell into step on either side of the Frenchman.

“And who might these ladies be?” Castiel asked neutrally, though Dean could tell his question was more investigation than interest.

“For you, m’lord, we have the vivacious Miss Meghan Masters, all the way from Newcastle. New money, unfortunately, but a lot of it. And for Dean here,” Balthazar slapped Dean on the arm as they walked, “the beautiful Lady Braeden, of course. They’re both expecting your first dances.”

“How kind of you to make such subtle introductions for us,” Dean offered dryly. Balthazar smiled beatifically, but Dean caught the small smirk that touched the edges of Castiel’s lips.

In fact, Dean found he was almost always watching Castiel’s lips, and it was damnably infuriating.

Even as they walked into the impressive ballroom, Dean could barely keep his eyes where they should be, despite the crystal chandelier overhead illuminating the chalking of the polished pine floor beautifully. The whole floor had been chalked with flowers. Some were already scuffed from dancing, but nonetheless, it was a pretty fashion, Dean decided. It was relatively new, to decorate the floors so, but it helped to ensure that the ladies’ leather dancing slippers did not slide too much on the polish. Dean was glad of it, as it certainly kept the men’s smooth-bottomed pumps from sliding, also.

Dean wasn’t overly given to dancing, but he could when called upon. So as not to stare overtly at Castiel and be lost in melancholy thoughts all night—which Balthazar would surely pick up on and bother him about—Dean turned his eyes to the lively cotillion that was already in progress on the floor.

“Ah, Lord Milton and Mister Winchester, such a pleasure to see you again,” came a melodic trill to Dean’s left. Abigail, Lady Donn, the esteemed patroness of Monsieur Roche, who seemed to be eternally fluttering her fan nearby and absorbing all of the gossip she both discovered and created, always seemed to speak as if she were reciting poetry to an assembly. Every word seemed carefully chosen, and something about it vaguely irritated Dean; her speech seemed insincere, he felt, and so he tried to politely avoid her company whenever he could.

“Lady Donn,” he said, briefly taking her gloved hand as it was offered and bowing low over it. “I trust the setup of the entertainments are to your liking, tonight?”

She paused while Castiel offered his greetings also, before turning back to Dean. “Indeed, this is much more presentable than some sides of London that I’ve seen. Though, I will admit, I’m looking forward to heading on to my country estate as summer moves on.”

Castiel asked a polite question about the estate, and Dean took a moment to take in the room. There were many familiar faces, both from Balthazar’s club and Dean’s own personal or business acquaintances. Nothing, yet, was raising any red flags.

“And what about you, Mister Winchester?” Lady Donn was saying, pulling Dean’s attention back. “What are your plans for this summer?”

“Oh,” Dean said, waving a dismissive hand. “London, I suppose. I have no particular reason to travel back to Derbyshire. I expect most everyone of my acquaintance will be out of the city, so perhaps I shall finally get some peace,” he quipped, deflecting the conversation onward humorously. He was about to turn the question onto Balthazar, and away from himself, but it seemed that Lady Donn would not have it.

“Why, Mister Winchester, that will not do! Once Parliament lets out, you and Lord Milton should both travel down to the Cotswolds and spend a week at Sands House—especially for midsummer’s eve. I’m hosting the event of the summer—of course—and it would be remiss of me not to invite two of London’s finest bachelors, would it not?”

Dean looked across to Castiel, exchanging a look with him as Lady Donn continued her descriptions of her family’s fine old house near the town of Cheltenham, with its renowned spa waters and fine society. They had both clearly noticed the mention of midsummer's eve—for which they needed to be in London. Or did they? Perhaps they should be where so much of this pocket of society would be, as it was their main lead...that would be up to Bobby, Dean supposed.

With a sigh, and more punch, Dean resigned himself to a long evening of gleaning drips of dreams of clues, if that. None of these people had seemed suspicious before, so why would they slip up now?

Castiel caught Dean’s attention, nodding over to the opposite side of the room. There, amidst a small gaggle of known friends, stood the Prince Regent. Clearly, Sir Alfred Rosen could attract the very cream of London, if he had enticed Prince George. Dean thought that one of the nearby dancers might even be the Marchioness of Hertford, to whom everyone knew the prince had been attached to on and off in the past year, despite her husband’s protests. Since his separation from Caroline of Brunswick in particular, George’s many mistresses had provided society with plenty of entertainment.

Dean thought the royal politics and gossip to be dull, for the most part, but the Men of Letters were in the employ of the crown, however secretive their true purpose may be. Both Castiel and himself should pay respects before they departed, he noted.

“I suppose we must,” Castiel allowed, sounding even less keen than Dean himself.

“Cheer up, Cas,” Dean whispered. “He’s not that bad. It’s just a shame it’s not a gambling night, because we could both line our pockets on his debts.”

Castiel gave out a small laugh, and Dean’s chest thrummed to hear it.

Listening to Balthazar’s gossip about who was in attendance, Dean and Castiel stuck to him like flies as he drifted to obtain punch, before heading back to the dancefloor. It was then that he brought them forward to the ladies he’d “selected” for them that evening. Monsieur Roche was a known matchmaker who delighted in making social connections, and Dean and Castiel both were resigned to playing along.

“Ahh, Lady Braeden.” Dean bowed down, putting on his best smile. It wasn’t hard to do; she was, as Balthazar had said, a beautiful woman. Dancing with her would hardly be a chore. “It’s my pleasure.”

Miss Masters seemed delighted with Castiel—and who could blame her. Her eyes darted flirtatiously up and down his form from behind her fan, and all Dean could do was smile to himself, biting his lips as he thought, _Oh, yes…I know._

When it came time to begin a fresh turn around the dance floor, a joyful scotch reel filling the air, Dean did his duty and led Lady Braeden out onto the chalk. Her sparkling conversation matched her soft disposition and ease on the eyes, and Dean thought that if he were ever to marry a woman, one like this would do just fine. Logic told him so. But…little else. Dean held back his sighs, not wanting to disappoint the delightful lady, or make her think she was doing something wrong.

It was hardly her fault that Dean’s interest was already held elsewhere.

On the other side of the circle they stepped within, Castiel and Miss Masters moved in a mirror of Dean and Lady Braeden. Miss Masters said something over the music, and Dean saw Castiel’s face lighten slightly, a short laugh falling from his lips. But then his eyes slipped away from his lively, petite partner, just as Dean’s kept doing with his own.

On the next round, Lady Braeden had given up attempts at conversation, and when Dean dared raise his eyes over her shoulder, there was Castiel, looking straight back at him.

Castiel’s eyes were a breathtaking ocean blue in the bright lights, highlighted even more by the shiny silk of his cravat. Dean drowned for a moment.

Their eyes remained locked across the dancefloor, drifting and passing close, and Dean couldn’t do a thing to stop it.

Castiel didn’t look away, either.

As they danced, their hands moved in unison as they made their way through the steps with their respective partners, and it produced a strange effect that made Dean feel almost as if he were dancing with Castiel, instead. They moved together, stepping and turning, and their eyes always found each other’s again on the return.

Dean’s heart ached spitefully.

Castiel’s eyes had been cautious, when they’d first began, as if ready to look away when Dean caught him. But as the dance wore on and Dean’s gaze remained, they slowly filled with a longing sorrow that Dean was certain he could match and name.

When the instruments swelled their last, Dean bowed deeply to Lady Braeden, and complimented her dancing.

“If you would excuse me, though, m’lady,” he said, trying his best to keep his voice light, “I find that I need a little air. And of course, I must share you with all the other waiting gentlemen.”

Her smile was warm as she thanked him, but she didn’t push him for another dance.

Dean moved away from the hustle and bustle of the dance floor, drifting his way past the huddled groups of conversation in the smaller salons at the sides of the house, before making his way to an open terrace at the back. He walked slowly, listening to the conversations, trying to pick up on familiar voices and keeping an ear out for clues. All he heard were exclamations about dances, discussions on tailors, and gossip about the war. None of it helpful, none of it interesting.

So, instead, Dean let himself out onto the terrace, to stand in the cool evening air with his shameful misery.

Castiel saw Dean leave the ballroom from the corner of his eye—how could he not have? This whole wretched evening he’d been aware of Dean’s presence, like a torch burning brightly in his periphery. The horror of dancing, together but separately, their eyes meeting again and again...it was some of the worst torture Castiel believed he’d ever been subjected to.

At least his partner was lively—Miss Masters had hardly said two words to him yet, but she led him in dance like she’d been born to it. Afterwards, she led him away from the dance floor, flicking out a brisée fan to cool herself with. As they walked, she murmured to Castiel just above the echoing din, “Come, Sir, let us find some drinks to make this ado bearable.”

Castiel blinked at her in surprise, but moved along at her pace to the bar. Glasses of rum punch in hand, they moved to the rear of the room where the ubiquitous card tables were set up.

Sure enough, the Prince Regent held court at one table, his friends and hangers-on surrounding him. They played at Faro, a game that Castiel knew the Prince loved to play, but was terrible at.

Meg led Castiel to a smaller table without card players, where they could sit and drink in relative quiet after the dancing. As Castiel took his seat, Meg said quietly, “That’s better. Do you play, Lord Milton?”

“I do occasionally, but I’ve only recently returned from the peninsula and haven’t had much opportunity for practice,” he replied, trying to smile to calm his jangling nerves.

“Oh, please let’s not talk about the war,” Meg exclaimed, her mouth downturned in distaste. “All I hear these days is Boney this, Wellington that!”

"Fair, I suppose," Castiel replied, inclining his head. He wished they were closer to the front of the room so he could at least check on Dean, but they were in a dark corner and he couldn't see much past the milling crowds. He avoided turning his head to look through sheer will, and instead focused his attention on Miss Masters. "What would you prefer to speak about?”

The young lady practically glowed under his gaze. "Perhaps we could discuss the unexpected clemency of the weather, or how fine the company is this evening."

Castiel murmured, "Perhaps." He was really not in the mood for such idle chatter.

“Or perhaps,” she continued, eying him over the fluttering of her fan in the stifling warmth of the room, “you could explain to me the longing gazes you share with your colleague, Mister Winchester.”

Castiel’s gaze snapped back to hers from where it had been wandering across the crowd at the card tables. “I beg pardon, Miss Masters?”

Her eyes were bright with mirth as she smiled at him. “Well, it’s only that I couldn’t help noticing, as we danced, that you shared rather a lot of glances with him. He is uncommonly pleasant to look at, is he not?”

Castiel’s heart sank like a stone. Was he so obvious? He would try to deny it, of course, but he could feel his face heating—as much an admission of guilt as a love confession might be. He gave a short, forced laugh, trying to play his dismay off as much as he could. “Well, yes, he is a handsome fellow, certainly. But any such looks are in your imagination.”

Miss Masters leaned in closer to him, and he inhaled the light scent of violets about her as her curls swung down to frame her face. “Fear not,” she murmured. “I shall keep your secrets. I’m happy to keep you company as you long for another.”

“Pray, do not tease me, Miss Masters.” Castiel frowned. “Nothing improper is occurring, and your insinuations are false.” He was dreadfully warm under his coat and cravat, suddenly. He stood, and Miss Masters followed. “Shall we go out to the balcony? I need the evening air.”

“Very well,” Miss Masters replied, looking a little smug as she placed her gloved hand on his offered elbow. “Your family’s seat is in Hertfordshire, is it not? Tell me about it.”

They had only taken a few steps back across the floor when Miss Masters let out a quiet gasp, making Castiel quite forget what he’d been about to tell her about his father’s house.

“What is it?” Castiel asked, following her gaze across the room. Entering the ballroom, surrounded by her retinue, was Queen Charlotte herself. The elderly Queen rarely made appearances at social gatherings anymore, having been somewhat ill of health in recent years, or so Castiel had heard. He’d never met her in person before.

Castiel and Miss Masters were forced to wait to escape to the fresh air, since the crowd immediately milled around the Queen as she took her place on a comfortable chair at the head of the room. She presided over the party, wishing the dancing to continue, so with a flurry of couples lining up, the dancing did exactly that.

Castiel led his companion around the dance floor close to the royal seat, but as they passed by the gaggle of people around Her Majesty, Castiel found himself face to face with Dean, coming the other way.

Dean’s eyes were wide as he stood a scant foot away from Castiel in the bustling crowd. They might as well have been standing in the Sahara for all Castiel was aware of anyone but Dean, color high in his cheeks and his lips slightly parted.

The pause was shattered by a strong, commanding voice from nearby, carrying across the crowd. “Dean Winchester? Is that you?”

Castiel turned to look at the same time as Dean did, to see the Queen herself sitting forward on her chair and beckoning to them impatiently. “Come here, lad, I wish to speak with you.”

Dean turned to share a wide eyed look with Castiel, before he grabbed Castiel by the elbow and dragged him into Her Majesty’s presence.

They both bowed deeply, as the crowd murmured curiously around them.

“Mister Winchester, are you going to introduce me to your colleague?” Her Majesty asked, as though they’d kept her waiting for an hour.

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Dean said, straightening his shoulders. “Ma’am, may I present Lord Castiel Milton, in Her Majesty’s service in the Men of Letters.”

Queen Charlotte’s hair was wrapped in a brocade turban, and her shoulders held a great fur coat to keep her warm, despite the warmth of the summer evening. She smiled primly, her eyes kind, but calculating. “How do you do, Lord Milton? I trust our Men of Letters are treating you well.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Castiel said, glad his voice held firm. His brother had been the one to receive all the courtly training while he’d been out riding across the estate, but Dean’s presence by his side lent him strength.

The Queen nodded. “I trust you’re enjoying your evening, as well. Any particular ladies caught your eye, perhaps?”

Had she just…? Castiel couldn’t believe that Queen Charlotte would lower herself to playing matchmaker, and he had no idea how to respond to such a question.

Fortunately Dean stepped in smoothly. “Not just yet, Ma’am, and while the night is yet young, we were just on our way to return to duty, in fact. Serial murderers wait for no man, after all,” he added, looking around at the crowd.

The frantic whispers started up once again around them.

Queen Charlotte nodded again, thoughtfully. “Very well, Lord Milton, Mister Winchester, I wish you a good evening.”

Castiel bowed again, and found himself pulled to the side by Dean, who headed away from the crowd.

Dean turned to Castiel and said, grinning, “Cas, if only you could have seen your face when she called out to me. I thought you were about to faint dead away!”

Castiel stared at him, taken aback by his sudden joviality. He kept his voice low for Dean’s ear only, bending close. “Well, pardon me for being shocked—I’ve never had the occasion to meet royalty before. Had I known Her Majesty was such a meddling matchmaker I would not have been so pleased to see her!”

“A matchmaker? Whatever do you mean?” Dean asked, a perplexed crease between his brows.

“She asked us if women caught our eye!”

“Oh, no,” Dean said, waving his gloved hand in front of him. He leaned in close to Castiel to speak quietly as well, his proximity doing funny things to Castiel’s stomach. “Queen Charlotte is the patroness of the Men of Letters. Bobby sends her briefing pages every day, or so I’ve been told. She was asking me about the case! Whether we had found any women of interest.”

“The case?” Castiel shook his head in wonder. He found himself unsurprised that the head behind the foremost intelligence and supernatural detective network in England was the Queen herself.

“I beg pardon, Lord Milton,” came a voice at his elbow, and Castiel turned to see Miss Masters standing there. “My apologies for interrupting, but his Highness is asking for you.”

“His Highness…?” Castiel glanced at Dean, then over towards where Prince George had been sitting. The Prince Regent was looking in their direction, a frown upon his face. “Ah,” Castiel said. “Thank you, Miss Masters.”

Dean spoke up. “Miss Masters, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to fetch a drink?”

Castiel turned to stare at him as he stepped forward, offering Miss Masters the crook of his elbow. He sent Castiel a fleeting wink as he led Miss Masters away.

 _Well then_ , Castiel thought. He was on his own.

The Prince Regent was a portly man, the evidence of his extravagant lifestyle written all over his ruddy face. The fifty-odd year-old was famous for his string of both gambling debts and beautiful mistresses, and he was obviously already well into his cups at this point in the evening, judging by the several empty crystal decanters sitting on the table beside him.

Castiel had only met him on one previous occasion, when he and Anna visited London and Michael had presented them at an assembly he’d attended. As far as Castiel could tell at the time, Michael had been quite a favorite of the Prince, but he was surprised the man had recognized him tonight.

Castiel bowed deeply as he approached, murmuring, “Your Highness.”

When he straightened, the Prince Regent asked, “How d’you do, Milton?” He added solemnly, “Damned shame about Michael, what?”

Castiel nodded briefly, pleased the months had dulled the pain of losing his older brother, even if he’d been away for much of the time. Even so, he wasn’t sure how to reply to such a statement. Prince George continued before he could think of anything.

“Although I hadn’t seen him for a while before he went missing, anyway. Kept spending time with that idiot, uh, what was his name, Morgan?” He leaned over to the man sitting beside him at the table, flush-faced and mostly drunk as well, by the looks.

“Sinclair,” the man, Morgan, said, while pouring himself another brandy.

“Sinclair!” Prince George echoed, turning back to Castiel, his eyes narrowed. “Spent all his time with him, and they both went chasing after that woman, that…eh, Morgan?”

“Lady Donn,” Morgan supplied again.

Castiel’s eyes widened as he sipped at his drink. Michael and Sinclair had been pursuing Lady Donn? The lady seemed pleasant enough, but hardly Michael’s type.

“That’s her! Visiting at all hours, it was quite the scandal for a while.” The Prince continued, hardly pausing to draw breath. “You’re a Lettersman now in his place, I see.”

“Yes, Sir. Although…I find myself wondering if I’m not well suited to the role.” Castiel should not really be so candid with the Prince Regent, but the Prince took no offense.

“That’s too bad, Milton,” the Prince said, with a grin. “Once you’re in, they’ve got you for life, I hear. Best develop the stomach for it, what!”

Castiel nodded, uncomfortable with the confirmation of what Bobby had told him months ago, when he’d been inducted into the organization. There was no getting away—but he’d at least wait until this case was solved before asking Singer to reassign him away from Dean. He’d have to live with the pieces of his broken heart until then.

Prince George barrelled on. It seemed once he got started, there was no use trying to get a word in. “I see they’ve got you working with that chicken-hammed churl, Winchester.”

Castiel bristled at his words—of course he’d noticed that Dean’s legs bowed outwards slightly at the knees, but he would never be so impolite as to mention it to anyone.

“I am, Sir. In fact, we are still on duty tonight. I must return to the case.”

Prince George humphed. “Ah yes, the mysterious serial killer. Very well; I wish you the best of luck, old chap.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Castiel wished the Prince and his friends a pleasant evening, and took himself back into the crowd in search of Dean. He turned this way and that, but the press of the crowd was too great, and the heat almost stifling.

A hand grasped his forearm, the shock of it sending a jolt up his arm and across his back. He turned, alarmed, to behold Dean’s concerned gaze. “Cas, are you well?”

“Dean!” He let out a relieved breath.

Dean’s smile was akin to the warm sun after days in the chill of winter. He leaned forward to speak into Castiel’s ear, “You were happy to leave now, were you not? Only you seemed to be looking for a dance partner, and I wouldn’t want to spoil your evening…”

“Hm? Oh no, I’d prefer to head out to get some air, anyway. I am happy not to spend another minute in this place.”

Dean nodded, relieved.

They hurried back out to the entrance, gathering their coats. As they waited for their carriage, Dean asked, “What did old George want with you? I was not aware you were acquainted.”

Castiel huffed. “He was an acquaintance of my brother, before he died. My thanks for abandoning me, by the by.”

Dean laughed, a bright, clear sound that struck right at Castiel’s heart. “The Prince is no friend of mine, Cas. He lost too many card games to me, so we tend to avoid one another.”

Castiel shook his head, amused, but now understanding the Prince’s attitude. “Actually, he mentioned that Michael had been keeping company with Cuthbert Sinclair, and they’d both been visiting, perhaps pursuing, Lady Donn.” Castiel shook his head, the absurdity of the idea difficult to comprehend.

“Well that can’t be right,” Dean said, chuckling. “Sinclair was many things, an eccentric, a drunkard, addicted to laudanum, certainly. But he was not in the least romantically inclined. The last thing he would have been looking for was a wife.”

The carriage rattled to a stop outside the door before Castiel could voice his confusion, but by the time they were both seated for their return journey, he’d dismissed the thought.

The two of them fell back into their easy banter, trading stories about other evenings they’d been subjected to, and laughing at the absurdity of the beau monde. Castiel’s heart was still aching for what might have been, but at least it was lighter tonight than it had been in weeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terms:  
> chicken-hammed - bow-legged  
> churl - a peasant, a commoner


	8. Chapter 8

The Cotswolds were stunning. Dean had never been there before; he’d had no prior enticement to travel in that direction. The Winchester family seat was in Derbyshire, and with his life in the Letters, he was usually fully occupied in London, no matter the season. He’d gazed out of the carriage window on the approach to Sands House and been quite taken as the green, endlessly rolling hills came into view. Tiny villages and great houses nestled amongst them, and Dean couldn’t help but think that if he ever became enamored with a country life, somewhere like this would suit him well.

It was a nice thought…for a few minutes, at least. Dean knew, in reality, that he was the type of man who would likely dwindle of boredom should he ever stop hunting monsters on the streets of London. He’d die a Lettersman—of that, he’d always been certain. And alone, unwed, it seemed increasingly likely. But at least he’d have his job.

The gorgeous landscape had been a minor distraction on the carriage journey, but sadly nowhere near enough.

Dean and Castiel had left London the afternoon before. The journey from London to the Cotswolds by carriage was a hefty fourteen-hour jaunt, so they’d packed in several extra hours the day prior to ensure they arrived at a polite hour today. It was midafternoon, and Dean had been sharing a carriage with Castiel the entire day.

He needed fresh air, desperately.

Castiel was polite and courteous, of course. They briefly discussed the case, and here and there drifted into talks of literature or plays that they both enjoyed or told tales of their pasts and childhoods. Castiel even told a few stories from the war, nothing too heavy, but even so, Dean was glad he was beginning to talk about it.

The problem was that the more time Dean spent with Castiel, the more he spoke with him, the more he liked him. Dean was, in fact, entirely certain by now that he was in love with him.

Which was hellishly awful considering that Castiel had made clear he would not, despite some clear attraction on his part also, allow them to be together.

So, as the day had worn on and his feelings and wants had bloomed and wilted around him within the carriage in an endless loop, Dean began to feel like he was choking. The falling petals of something that he wanted so much but could not have were blocking up his throat and stealing his voice, and in the end they both fell silent, gazing out at the countryside as it sped by.

By the time their vehicle rattled into the carriage pull-through of Sands House, Dean couldn’t bear to sit in such a small space with such big feelings for even a moment longer. He disembarked sharply, meeting the footman who approached from Sands House before he’d even had time to put a hand on the door. Castiel followed Dean closely, as if he was just as desperate for space.

“Good afternoon, Lord Milton, and Mister Winchester,” the footman said, bowing down low as Dean hopped down from the carriage step. “Such a pleasure to have you here with us. My mistress sends word that she is sensitive to your long journey, and so she would not have you paraded before company until dinner. I can show you straight up to your rooms, sirs, if you wish?”

“Oh, no, thank you,” Dean said quickly. “I’m finding myself feeling quite cramped up after sitting for so long in the carriage, and I missed my morning constitutional as it is. If it’s all the same, my trunk can go up to my room and I’ll take a brisk walk.”

The footman smiled, nodding as he answered, “Of course, Sir,” though Dean could tell from the slight raising of his eyebrow that he thought Dean quite mad, in the heat of midsummer. Dean couldn’t really argue, but needs must when he was being driven so hard to distraction.

Dean took his leave immediately, striding straight out of the tall metal gates that framed the entrance to Sands House, Lady Donn’s fine home. It was a beautiful building, Dean could see that much—huge, blocky and imposing, several stories of weathered local limestone set amongst expansive gardens. The place was stunning.

It was also, according to all of Sam’s research, the cross-point of every ley line in the Cotswolds.

As if they hadn’t been concerned enough already.

None of the persons Dean and Castiel had acquainted themselves with at Balthazar’s had appeared even slightly suspicious, despite their digging. They had come to the conclusion, with Bobby, that it was best that they travel and stay in the company of Monsieur Roche and his patroness, in the hope that they might yet meet more people whom they could keep an eye on throughout midsummer’s eve. There were plenty of other Lettersmen, Bobby had pointed out, to patrol the streets of London. Balthazar was all they had in terms of a solid lead.

Shaking thoughts of their endless, fruitless case from his head as he walked, Dean crunched across the pebbles that had been spread around the rutted carriageway up to Sands house. Beyond it, a series of bridleways and footpaths led on up into the hills, without another building to be seen for miles.

That, Dean hoped, should be enough space to clear Castiel from his head.

Damn that man.

Damn that beautiful, quick-witted, indomitable man.

The gently undulating hills were a patchwork of greens, dotted with huge old oaks and ancient clusters of beech. Here and there, bursts of the honey-colored limestone rock that formed the hills could be seen amid the sea of wildflowers that washed over every field. It was quiet, and Dean quickly forgot about the pathways entirely, striking out across the wild landscape.

The footman had been right about one thing; it was ungodly hot, and Dean reached up to tug away his neckcloth and unbutton his waistcoat, in the end bundling them both up in his hand with his hat. A valet could fix them for him later; right then all he cared for was a little breeze across his throat and to ease the beading sweat that trickled across his chest and back.

Dodging around the edge of a field of sheep—Dean wasn’t about to be butted by anybody’s ram, thank you—and on down into one of the shallow valleys, Dean tried to breathe the sticky air in deep, his burning lungs helping him force out his ungentlemanly thoughts of Castiel.

So of course, he continued to think of Castiel.

Thoughts of his form highlighted against the light of the window in the carriage as the sun rose lazily that morning, of his deep rasping voice as he talked so solemnly about his escapades as a boy, one of several brothers and many more cousins. And of his hands, the strong, thick length of his surprisingly elegant fingers curling and waving as he spoke, bringing to mind so many other, far less innocent things that Dean wished to see them do.

Seeing a small brook babbling its way along the base of the beech-lined valley, where it filled several ponds and brought a little life to the otherwise still fields, Dean headed off toward it. Perhaps there, he thought, he could sit and clear his mind. At least try, he supposed, to not think of his friend in a way that he had made it clear he did not want.

Movement out of the corner of Dean’s eye drew his attention immediately to one of the natural ponds that sat at the foot of the hill. The water looked fairly fresh, broken by the odd pink bloom on a green lily pad and a ripple here and there, though Dean was too far away to tell if they were from fish or dragonflies. At the pond shore, which was grassy save for a few large boulders like nature’s little armchairs, there stood a fine Thoroughbred. The horse was a dark, chestnutty brown, beautifully glossy and leaning more toward the Arab side of its heritage, to Dean’s eyes. Saddled and tied off to some shrubbery nearby, it was alone.

Dean gave a little click to the roof of his mouth as he approached, and the horse looked up amiably, patient and well trained. “Hello there, boy,” he said, approaching from the front and holding out a hand, slowly, for the creature to sniff at and acclimatize himself to. “Where’s your rider at, huh, pretty thing like you?”

The horse, of course, did not answer, and Dean shook his head at himself in amusement. He was about to see if the Thoroughbred would allow him to approach any closer, when a mighty splash from further down the bank sent both Dean’s and the horse’s heads swinging to the left.

There, at the side of the pond, stood Castiel.

His chest heaved, having clearly just pulled himself up out of the water. In tight breeches—dark from water and clinging to every damnable curve that graced Castiel’s form from the waist down—and only a simple linen shirt, Castiel stood in the sunlight, dripping.

Slowly, beginning at his bare toes, Dean dragged his eyes up Castiel’s soaked body. The curve of his calves, trickling with rivers as his shirt released water, led up to his thick, powerful thighs. There, Dean struggled not to let his gaze linger, a low puff of breath falling from Dean’s lips at the effort it took to pull his eyes on upward. He skimmed over Castiel’s waist, the ruck of his shirt and the low droop of the soaked breeches revealing a hipbone so catastrophic that Dean’s mind would forever be able to paint elaborate friezes of the way it peeked above the fabric of Castiel’s waistband.

Dean’s breath shuddered shamefully as he walked his stare up the rest of its helpless path; Castiel’s muscled stomach, his still-heaving ribs, the dark blooms of his peaked nipples beneath thin, clinging fabric. The shirt was open at the neck, revealing much of Castiel’s sternum and a smattering of damp hair that disappeared into the sodden vee of linen.

Finally braving Castiel's throat, fresh with water droplets that begged for Dean’s tongue to catch them, Dean moved on up to Castiel’s face. His cheeks were pink, and his mouth was slightly parted in—in what? Horror? Shame? A strange sort of hope? Castiel’s eyelashes clumped together wetly as he ran a hand up over his face, which helped barely at all when his fingers were as wet as the rest of him. A wild curl of hair licked across Castiel’s forehead, and immediately, Dean was taken back to the doorway beyond the Birdcage Walk, in London.

Dean itched to reach out and smooth the lock of hair back up to where it should rest, as he’d done then.

But he pulled in a sharp breath and clenched his fist. That curl of hair on the Birdcage Walk had led to one of the best kisses that Dean could recall, the one to fill his dreams every night since, but also, to crushing rejection.

The feeling of it, the firm dismissal, still burned in his chest and reduced his heart to ashes. Ridiculous thing, how dare it torment him so?

His throat clicking, Dean took a step back, as if that would somehow help.

Castiel stared back at him, his lips working soundlessly for a moment, before he managed to rasp low, “Hello, Dean.”

Castiel was fairly sure his heart was trying to claw its way out of his throat. He stood, dripping, watching Dean’s expressions chase their way across his face. His cheeks were pink, and he stared like a man who was sure he was looking at an apparition.

Castiel dropped his gaze, closing his eyes to try to collect himself.

Dean cleared his throat, about to say something, but he only managed, "Cas, I—" before Castiel quickly interrupted him.

"No, Dean, you must excuse me. I was warm from my ride, and…" he trailed off, glancing up in time to see Dean licking his lips, a panicked expression on his face.

All he wanted in that moment was to step forward, take Dean’s face between his wet hands and kiss that devastated look off him.

But he couldn't. They'd decided they couldn't.

"I beg pardon," he muttered, and stooped to retrieve his coat and shove his bare feet into his travel boots. He hurried to untie the patient gelding and lead him away, his wet clothes sticking to his skin unpleasantly. Dean said not a word.

Castiel wasn't sure what had possessed him to dive into the lake half-clothed. He'd spent all day in that infernal carriage, three feet from Dean and fit to burst with pent up tension. When they'd finally arrived at Sands House and Dean had quickly taken his leave to walk the grounds, he hadn't extended the invitation to Castiel.

The slight had stung, but he couldn’t really blame the man. They'd danced a precarious kind of minuet over the weeks since St. James Park, polite to each other but distant. Castiel himself had been trying to keep his distance, purely because of the way his heart broke over and over whenever Dean was near.

Instead, he'd been shown to his rooms, but then accepted the offer of one of her ladyship's own hunters to try to work out some of his own frustrations. A ride out across the fields with the wind blowing in his hair calmed him like nothing else could, especially with this beast so much more spirited and more fleet-footed than the warhorses he'd worked with on the peninsula.

He'd circled back to the pond, allowing the hunter to stoop to drink as he dropped to the ground to stretch out his legs. The water had looked cool and inviting, so on a whim, he'd shed his boots, stockings, coat and waistcoat and dived in, as he’d done countless times on the peninsula in streams and rivers there.

And now… And now, he trudged back towards the house, his boots pinching his damp feet. He hoped they wouldn't be ruined by the lake water—he had intended to dry off in the sun before getting dressed again. For Dean to come upon him in that manner was not only embarrassing—the look on Dean's face had shocked Castiel to his core.

The horse tossed his head agitatedly, and Castiel loosened his iron grip on the reins, reaching up to rub at the broad shoulder. "Sorry," he muttered.

He quickly made his way to the stables, removing tack and rubbing the horse down himself rather than bothering the grooms. He'd seen the two boys snoozing in the sun on his way in—he was sure they'd be busy soon enough as the other guests of the ball arrived.

As he headed back out into the unusually warm afternoon, he spied a well-kept flower garden away to his right. It seemed well-shielded from the house by a wall and shaped hedges—perhaps he could dry off in the sun after all, rather than face the disapproval of Phillip, the footman Lady Donn had made available to her guests as a valet.

The garden was extensive and beautiful, with budding roses rambling over arches here and there, amid garden beds hedged with gardenias, blooming white and filling the air with a sweet scent. A long allée connected the garden with the house—a narrow pathway running under a wide arch hung with wisteria flowers and bordered with more flowers. Castiel had always loved his mother's garden at Milton Hall, and this reminded him acutely of it, with bright peonies, phlox and tall hollyhocks contained within the borders.

He checked around the garden and down the allée for other guests of Lady Donn, but sighed with relief when he found himself alone save for a gardener clipping away at a hedge some distance away. It was bad enough that he'd made such an embarrassment of himself in front of his friend, but for any other gentlefolk to see him in this state, while an honored guest, was unthinkable.

Dropping his dry clothes onto a grassy lawn in a sunny patch between beds, he sat down and gingerly removed his boots, rubbing at his bare feet. His breeches had dried a little in the breeze already, but his shirt was still wet through, so he leaned back on his hands, letting the warm sun ease some tension from his shoulders.

He could not believe Dean had happened to be walking by just as he was swimming. He groaned his embarrassment out as he remembered Dean’s shocked expression, but Dean hadn't been scandalized. He'd been speechless, certainly, but his expression had shown…pain.

Castiel's own chest tightened at the thought of causing his best friend pain, the man he loved. For he certainly did love him—was _in love_ with Dean—with his charm, his wit and certainly his pleasant looks, but also with his gentility and loyalty. He could no more deny his feelings for the man than he could stop the summer breeze from blowing.

He scrubbed a hand over his surely disastrous hair and down his face with another groan. What the hell was he doing? Here they were, about to experience some kind of midsummer demon incursion, and all he could think about was Dean.

Was he to be miserable for the rest of his life, then? Watching Dean married to some young girl? Being matched up himself with the get of some noble family, forced to produce heirs? He could no longer leave the service of the Men of Letters—the Prince Regent had made that clear.

No. He wouldn't be able to bear it. The very idea set a deep ache within him.

He watched the flight of a dove winging its way across the garden, alighting on the ledge of a high dovecote. If he wasn't a damned lord, if his benighted brother hadn't met his end doing his duty for the crown, he would have been free to be with whoever he wished, man or woman, and few would have known or cared.

But then he might never have met Dean, might never have known that such a level of regard even existed.

If all went well tomorrow, if they made it through midsummer unscathed, he decided, then he'd make his declarations to Dean and they'd find a way to be together, propriety be damned.

No, that wasn't enough. He needed to make his feelings known, before tomorrow. Today, even. He could not go into uncertainty, possibly even a battle, without asking Dean for his forgiveness, at least.

But how? He looked around the garden, smelling the sweet gardenia scent as it blew through on the breeze. Getting back to his feet, he padded over to the nearest hedge, his bare feet cool on the grass. He pulled a stem with a few white flowers off the bush, holding it up to his nose and inhaling deeply. Yes, this would do nicely.

He shoved his feet back in his boots and his arms in his coat, and headed inside to find his way back to his rooms.

Tired, worn, and dejected, Dean made his way back through the gates of Sands House. The same helpful manservant who had greeted him upon his and Castiel’s arrival from London made his way over immediately, offering to show Dean to his rooms.

As they climbed up a wide, shallow stairway of thick red carpet and polished oak, Dean took note of whatever he could about the property. A Men of Letters’ skill, perhaps, but he was also just curious about their hostess, and a little nosy. Lady Donn had a very impressive home; that much was immediately obvious even from the outside. Her husband had possessed great wealth before his death, as evidenced by the address, and it seemed that the house had been left to his lady.

The interior of the house was filled with floor to ceiling panels of dark, shining wood and a lot of art. Portraits of the deceased family occupied almost every wall, well painted and rich in color, filling the hallways with subtle hints of wealth. The Donn family seemed to be blessed with riches rather than looks, Dean thought meanly as he observed the portraits. A lot of large noses, a few buck teeth, and a strong streak of tiny foreheads didn’t seem to bode well for any children Lady Donn would have had, if her husband hadn’t passed so early.

“Dinner will be served in an hour, Sir,” the manservant said as he led Dean along a wide landing to the second floor. “Phillip, one of our footmen, has been selected by Lady Donn to serve you and your colleague as a valet. He will be with you shortly—I believe he is currently assisting Lord Milton, but I’m sure he’ll be right along.”

“Very well,” Dean agreed, dipping his head in polite acknowledgement. He looked around, taking in the many identical oak doors that lined this part of the house. How many guest rooms did Sands House even have? Turning back to the footman, Dean gestured ahead of them both. “May I ask which room is Lord Milton’s?”

The man pointed to the room next to Dean’s own, as they came upon the doorway. “He will be right next door, sir. Lord Milton asked the same thing—I assure you, we have given you both the best appointed rooms on the floor,” he said, sounding slightly put out.

Dean gave him a small smile. “Of course. I merely wondered if I would see Lord Milton when I walked down to dinner.”

“Ahh,” the man said, sounding somewhat unconvinced as he pushed open the door. “Well, yes, I suppose you may. Is there anything else you require, sir?”

Seeing that his trunk was already at the foot of the bed within the room, Dean confirmed that he was fine and dismissed the footman back to his duties. While waiting for Phillip to finish up with Castiel and come to help him prepare for dinner, Dean took a moment to flop back on the plush, high bed that the simple guest room had been outfitted with. He sank into the brocade-patterned quilt and set his eyes firmly on the decorated plaster ceiling, not much caring for the fashionably floral wallpaper that assaulted his eyes otherwise.

The ceiling was dull enough to let his mind wander and didn’t judge him for where it went.

Why, oh why, had he had the damnable luck to run into Castiel on his walk?

He wasn’t the least bit disappointed that he’d gotten such a glorious eyeful of the lord’s dripping, muscled form as he rose from the water...but it did nothing but remind him that Castiel wasn’t his and did not want to be.

The rejection soured Dean’s stomach and made his chest ache afresh, and would have caused him to pass on dinner in any situation other than the one he was in. He had to show his face at Lady Donn’s entertainments, guest as he was, and it was the only way they could see which women had accompanied her from London. One of them, Dean hoped, would be their wicked, summoning sorceress.

If not, he had to hope that Bobby was right, and that the other agents in London could handle the case with Sam’s assistance.

A sharp rap on the door brought in an elderly but jovial valet, and Dean’s peace was lost to the bustle of swift preparation.

Dinner was a raucous affair. Lady Donn was no wilting maid, and with Balthazar Roche at her side near the head of the table, the plates piled high with venison and goose, and the cups filled frequently with good Madeira wine, it wasn’t surprising that many guests were bawdy by the time the ladies departed.

The seating plan had Dean several seats down from Castiel, which he couldn’t decide if he was grateful for or petulant about. He wanted his friend’s company, of course, but after the incident earlier, perhaps it was better to leave him be. Castiel had left the pond in such a hurry, he clearly didn’t want to talk. But Dean did feel his gaze many times throughout the meal, and planned to snag a seat beside him as the men moved on with Balthazar to the drawing room for port.

It was not to be. As Dean rose from his seat at the dining table, he saw Castiel exchange a few regretful-looking words with Balthazar and duck out of the room entirely, with a haste to his steps that Dean didn’t understand.

Moving over to Balthazar as they stepped through the double doors at the end of the dining hall to the salon beyond, Dean greeted his friend warmly before enquiring, “Did I see Lord Milton leaving us for the night?”

“Yes, indeed, _Monsieur,_ ” Balthazar said with a sigh. “I’d be quite put out about it—some of the ladies were much hoping to draw those blue eyes, I’m sure—but he is quite worn from your journey and wished to be excused early.”

Smiling understandingly, Dean kept his frown within. “I quite sympathize with him. It was a long time to sit in a carriage, no matter how luxurious they’re becoming these days.”

“I hope I can at least tempt you into one drink, before you roll into bed like a typical overfed Englishman, _non?_ ”

Dean gave a small chuckle. Suspect or not, the loose-lipped Frenchmen was hard to dislike. “One it is—so you’d better make it the best!”

After sipping his way through the extremely fortifying port that Balthazar proffered, Dean stayed only ten more minutes before excusing himself. He usually wasn’t one to turn down a drink, but there were to be no clues gained among the two dozen or so men that Lady Donn’s large party had attracted, and his melancholy just would not shake.

So, he excused himself, and made his way up to the guest rooms. Phillip and several other footmen and valets were scattered along the hallway, waiting to be useful. Lady Donn really had put her whole household at her guests' disposal.

Phillip was an extremely tall man for his age—he hadn’t fallen prey to any kind of stoop to match his gray top, and he was almost the same height as Sam. He made quick work of collecting Dean’s jacket and was working on taking Dean’s cravat when Dean began to notice a smell in his room. Soft, flowery, a little sweet smelling—gardenias, he was sure.

Casting his gaze around (and moving his neck, much to the valet’s unspoken annoyance, Dean was sure), Dean turned and spotted a stem of the beautiful white flower resting upon his bedspread. It certainly hadn’t been there before dinner; Dean had flopped all over that bed—he’d have crushed it.

Eyes widening, Dean spotted the fold of white paper beneath the green stem.

“Corresponding with one of the ladies attending, are you, sir?” Phillip said as he followed Dean’s gaze, slightly inappropriate but warm enough. “I assure you, I am the soul of discretion. Not even the maids will know it was here.”

Dean swallowed harshly, and all but hustled the poor man from the room as soon as he was done with Dean’s cravat and waistcoat.

“I’ll take these down the laundry for an extra good brushin’ then, Sir,” Phillip suggested, “if you’re sure you’ll be alright.”

“Yes, thank you,” Dean said, practically shutting the door on the man.

Key turned in the lock, Dean strode immediately back to the bed. What on Earth was this? There was no one he had even…

Castiel.

That handwriting, on the front of the folded paper—Dean had squinted at it for months, whenever Castiel had written reports. The man wrote like a wild spider had taken a jaunt through his ink, and gave not a care about it, either. He’d recognize that lettering anywhere.

 _Dean,_ the front simply said.

Reaching down to take it from the bed, Dean’s fingers shook slightly. _Come along, man,_ he thought firmly. _Don’t be ridiculous. It’s just a letter. It’s probably just something about the case that he couldn’t say in public._

But Dean’s eyes fell to the stem of gardenias atop the ugly coverlet. He wasn’t _so_ far removed from romantic entanglements that he had no clue as to the common language of flowers—he’d certainly never had time or space in his life in the Letters to use much of it, but he knew, just as everyone else did.

Gardenia— _secret love._

Dean took a breath. He couldn’t help the hope that curled in his chest as he unfurled the thick, unadorned paper.

 _Dean,_ it began.

_Midsummer is almost upon us. With a dangerous event close but yet still unknown, I find myself uneasy—no, afraid—to leave certain things unsaid._

_First, an apology: I should not have had us part, after our stroll through St. James’s Park. It doesn’t matter what reasons I had, or thought I had; they are not enough. Please forgive me for that, Dean, if you can._

_Secondly, a declaration: when we kissed on the Birdcage Walk, I thought I loved you, but since that day I have loved you a hundred times more. All the time I have known you, I have seen more of you each day. I thought wrong of you, to start—as I’m sure you did of me. I saw only faults. Now, I wish for those faults as much as any other part; show me something that is not handsome, not brave, not kind, not loyal. I wish to love all of you._

_A second chance, if you would do me the honor, is possibly more than I deserve for the pain that I now see I caused. But if you can find a place in your heart for me, a place in your life…then please, find some way to let me know._

_Let’s not leave anything unsaid._

Dean’s throat was tight and his lungs only allowed ragged air by the time he reached the end. The bottom of the note was signed simply, _Your Cas._

For long minutes Dean stared, committing every word to memory, though he knew without a doubt that he would be keeping the letter, as utterly besotted as he was.

Castiel loved him.

Castiel was _in love_ with him; he’d been pretty clear on that.

And now…now he wanted them to be together, even though they could never be so publicly. The only thing Dean couldn’t work out was why in God’s name he was still standing in his room alone, leaving Castiel to wonder if his declaration had been welcomed, or even received.

Automatically, Dean began toward the door, in nothing but his shirt, breeches and boots—but he pulled himself up short, inches from the door handle. No; that wouldn’t do. Beyond the door were Phillip the valet and his colleagues, assisting party guests returning from dinner and bustling back and forth.

It would not do anyone any good for him to be seen going to Castiel’s bedchamber. While Dean was sure that certain of their family, friends, and colleagues—like Sam, or Bobby, or Balthazar—wouldn’t give two hoots about whose bed Dean’s boots rested under, the majority of society surely would.

But, equally, Dean had no desire to make Castiel wait for a response until midsummer morning, when they would see each other next—they’d be surrounded by people, unable to talk freely, to act as they wished. That wouldn’t do at all.

And so, Dean dashed to the window.

He could hear his brother’s voice in the back of his head, telling him that he was a goddamned idiot, but he ignored it and pushed it away. That was the very last he’d be wanting to hear Sam’s voice _this_ night.

The window had a heavy sash, and it clattered and creaked as Dean pushed it upward. He paused; waiting to see if anyone came a-knocking at the noise. But, after a moment, there was only silence beyond the door. Dean stuck his head out of the window. He knew Castiel was only next door, if he could just…yes, that would do, Dean decided, grinning to himself as his eyes adjusted to the late evening light and landed on the thick sturdy ivy vines that covered this side of the house. Yes, they were a couple of floors up…but Castiel’s window was only a few feet away.

Decision made, Dean took a breath and swung his leg over the sill and ducked under the sash, straddling the window. He kept one foot securely inside his room until he had a firm foothold on the ivy below, then carefully reached across, tugging hard at the vines.

“Alright, Winchester,” he muttered to himself. “You can do this.”

Hauling his weight forward, he trusted the trailing ivy and pushed himself out of the window. Climbing sideways like a scuttling crab, Dean was glad that Phillip hadn’t gotten as far as removing his boots, as he used the soft leather to protect his toes as he pushed them through the leaves and into the gaps in the huge, limestone bricks that made up the exterior of Sands House.

“Don’t look down, don’t look down…” he whispered to himself, stretching across to reach Castiel’s window.

It was dim inside, Castiel’s room lit only by oil lamps, the window cracked open slightly to let in the summer breeze. Bravely letting go of one of the vines, Dean used his fingers to tap lightly on Castiel’s window.

“Cas!” he hissed, whisper-shouting through the gap.

When Castiel’s head finally raised after a few more taps—he was sitting in front of the tiny, dwindling fireplace that warmed the guest room, seeming lost in the embers—his expression was one of abject shock.

“Dean!” he cried in return, before hushing himself and dashing forward immediately to open the window further, his simple linen nightshirt flapping around him. “What in Lud’s name are you doing?!”

“What does it look like?” Dean grinned, grateful for Castiel’s steadying hands immediately coming through the window to help him.

“It looks like you’re being reckless and idiotic, as per usual,” Castiel grumbled, tugging Dean over the sill with such force that Dean popped into the room like a champagne wine cork, and they both stumbled back into the bedframe.

Grinning, laughing softly, Dean couldn’t help but agree. “Aye, perhaps. But you love me anyway.”

Castiel’s eyes widened slightly at the flippant statement, and his tongue darted out to moisten his lips. His back was to the bed, one of the four-poster corners between his shoulder blades as he gazed back at Dean, still in place exactly where he’d stumbled against Castiel as he came through the window. “Yes,” Castiel finally said, almost a whisper. “I do.”

Perhaps it was the port after dinner that had loosened his tongue, or perhaps Dean had finally begun to learn that some words had more value when spoken instead of thought, but regardless of the reason, what came out of his mouth was, “Then kiss me, m’lord.”

Castiel obliged with no hesitation, his hand rising to weave his fingers into the short hair at Dean’s nape and pull him forward the last few inches so that their lips met. It wasn’t like it had been on the Birdcage Walk, an over-spilling of deep kisses that wanted to—but could not—lead anywhere. This was wholly different, Castiel’s lips meeting Dean’s softly, warm and close and slow, breaking only for them to share disbelieving smiles that turned into soft, huffing laughs.

The sweet fruit compote and almond nougat pudding that had ended their fine dinner were still evident on Castiel’s tongue, and Dean hummed into his mouth at the taste. He wanted Castiel’s stubble beneath his lips, his scent all around him, his arms and legs and…Dean spread himself against Castiel’s front, pushing him back into the wooden corner column of the four-poster bed as he began to kiss his way up Castiel’s jaw.

With only Castiel’s simple nightshirt and Dean’s thin breeches between them, it was easy for Dean to feel Castiel’s growing arousal as his thigh pressed forward between Castiel’s own. With a shaky gasp and a low groan, Castiel tilted his head to the side, opening his neck to Dean’s mouth.

The slightly salty, warm taste of Castiel’s skin was everything Dean had craved for months, and he was momentarily overwhelmed by it. He slid his hands down Castiel’s sides, gripping ahold of his muscled flanks through thin linen.

“Wanted you for so long, Cas,” Dean breathed against his neck, his words muffled by his refusal to fully remove his lips from Castiel’s skin.

Castiel didn’t respond verbally, but his deliberate sidestep away from the wooden post at the end of the bed had them both tumbling onto the mattress. Dean felt himself tip forward, pulled down by Castiel’s hands at his shoulder and his hip, and he let out a quick, grinning laugh as he caught himself, hands on the mattress on either side of Castiel.

“Dean,” Castiel rasped, arousal causing the dark rocks of his voice to crash together in an ever-more rumbling crescendo. That sound alone could undo Dean.

With his toes on his heels, Dean kicked off his boots.

Their slither up the bed to the pillows was a mess of legs and arms and kisses and panting breaths that made it unclear exactly who was initiating and who was responding, but regardless, they made it, Dean on his back atop the thick quilt and Castiel curved over him, chest to chest, their legs tangled and hips meeting obviously.

Dean rolled his pelvis upwards, pressing his burning arousal into Castiel’s desperately.

Then he pulled back, finding Castiel’s eyes. His hands slid up, gliding across the planes of Castiel’s back before coming to rest on either side of his throat. Dean’s fingers ran reverently across Castiel’s jaw, the soft snag of stubble beneath his fingers fascinating Dean for a moment.

Castiel paused in his motions, letting his face be held, but one hand gripping tightly to Dean still, his fingers a request as they rested under the untucked hem of his shirt.

Above Dean, Castiel’s irises were a deep, inky, Diesbach blue in the dim light, darker than Dean usually saw them. He gulped, unable to stop the sudden rough wave of relief and affection that overtook him. To finally be here, with Castiel…it was something he’d given up allowing himself to dream of, but that still filled both his sleeping and waking thoughts, no matter what.

“Cas,” Dean whispered, scooping his hands further under Castiel’s jaw until his fingers tangled in thick, soft hair. “I love you, too. I hope you know that, even if I haven’t penned an epic to that effect.”

“It wasn’t an epic,” Castiel complained indignantly, but his eyes were soft, so soft that Dean tumbled into them and had trouble climbing back out again. There must be quicksand beneath the stormy blue waters, Dean thought. He’d simply have to stay. “Though if you want to write one in return, I wouldn’t complain. Poetry, perhaps, or a sonnet…” Castiel teased gently.

“How about a crude limerick?” Dean asked, laughing for a moment until Castiel leaned back in, capturing his lips.

They were gentler, then, though no less passionate. Castiel’s seeking fingers soon had Dean’s shirt off the bed, and his breeches kicked aside. When he’d kissed every inch of Dean’s collarbone he sat up, straddling Dean’s hips, and Dean reverently pushed up the simple white nightshirt that he wore. Castiel discarded it over his head, and for a moment Dean just stared; busy painting into his memory the gorgeous, naked sight of Castiel’s muscled, lightly tanned body in his lap, looking down at him.

Castiel spit into his palm and that was all they needed, as he took them both in hand and leaned back down. Foreheads pressed together, Dean didn’t look away from Castiel for even a moment as he reached up to wrap an arm around Castiel’s waist, pulling him close and rolling them to the side.

They rocked together slowly, taking their time and savoring every sensation, kisses and whispered pantings of each other’s names the only sound until Castiel shuddered, catching Dean’s lip softly between his teeth as he marked Dean’s body with thick spurts of white.

Dean groaned at the feeling, and it only took another minute for him to roll Castiel onto his back, taking himself in hand and shaking over him as he claimed him back in turn. Castiel wrapped his legs around Dean as he came, pulling him even closer, and kissed him over and over and over.


	9. Chapter 9

Castiel stirred, shivering in a cool draft. The sheer curtains in front of the sash were billowing into the room, and the breeze blowing off the hills sent gooseflesh spreading across his arms and chest.

He was naked, he considered idly as he eyed the gray pre-dawn light peeking between the curtains. Naked, and not alone, as a growing warmth crept over him at the sound of Dean breathing slowly and evenly beside him.

Last night had felt like a dream, some kind of ephemeral journey into a fantasy world. He reached out to run a hand gently across Dean’s warm shoulder, real and solid, where he was turned on his side away from Castiel. Dean had really climbed out of his own window, and in through Castiel’s, bringing his love confessions with him? Could he still be dreaming? He pinched his own arm until it stung, almost laughing in delight that he’d not imagined the entire thing.

As he pulled the bedclothes up to cover them both, he realized it must still be very early if light was only just beginning to show—midsummer had arrived. Later today, they’d be meeting the rest of the guests for the ball, and trying to determine which of the ladies present, if any, might be responsible for the demons in London. Soon, the household would be awake, bustling to prepare for the day’s festivities. Those who worshipped older religions might already have been awake to witness the dawn of the solstice—and if he didn’t go back to sleep, he might somewhat unwillingly be one of them.

Castiel didn’t want to know about the dawn, though. He wanted to stay here, wrapped up in bed with Dean, forever.

Shifting his hips forward, Castiel lined his front up along Dean’s warm back, relishing the way the skin-on-skin contact sent more shivers across his skin, and began a deep kindling of arousal in his core.

Dean shifted slightly, snorting a little as he woke, but then he mumbled something sleepily and slowly ground his hips back, rubbing his backside against Castiel’s rapidly filling erection.

Castiel placed kisses carefully on the back of Dean's neck as he rested his palm on Dean’s hip, but Dean grabbed his hand and brought it around to his chest, holding Castiel’s arm close under his own.

Castiel smiled as Dean settled again, his breathing evening out once more. This was it; he'd died sometime yesterday and ascended, he was sure. He hadn't ever just woken up with someone like this before—all his other affairs had been rushed intimacy, fumblings in the dark and a quick getaway.

Last night they'd shared something special, though; a long-denied chemistry finally bubbling over. After cleaning each other up with a damp linen, they’d lain together, whispering promises of a future that was largely unknown, trading kisses in the dark.

Castiel had intended to convince Dean to return to his room then, but they'd both fallen asleep before he could, and now he found he was glad. He could no more hold in his love for this man than he could stop the sun from rising, and in fact, Dean really needed to get back to his room before that happened.

He longed to fall back asleep, warm and safe with Dean in his arms, but with his arm held prisoner, pulling him flush against Dean’s back, he found a roaring in his blood that was never going to allow him to rest.

They needed this, just one night together. Then they'd face whatever was coming later in the day side by side, and he felt the knowledge that Dean loved him would make him invincible.

He shifted slightly, the friction of his full cock against Dean's skin making him hitch in a breath.

He couldn't just rut against Dean while he was sleeping—that didn't seem fair. He needed to wake Dean up. Pulling his hand gently out of Dean's grip, he brushed his hand over the front of Dean's crotch, smiling as Dean moaned slightly and shifted backwards again.

He gripped Dean's shoulder and gently pulled until Dean was angled half onto his back, pressing kisses to his cheek as he blinked in the dim light.

"Cas? I—?"

"Shh," Castiel hushed him as he moved further down, kissing along Dean's clavicle and tasting his pectoral, licking his pert nipple and enjoying his throaty gasp. He continued downwards, nuzzling the softer flesh around Dean's middle, then the jut of a hip bone.

By the time he reached Dean's cock it was already hard and lying curved along his stomach, rocking upwards as Dean clenched his muscles at the touch of Castiel’s tongue and the grazing of his teeth across his skin.

Castiel wasted no further time, lifting Dean’s shaft and taking him into his throat all at once. Dean let out an undignified yelp. Startled, Castiel reached up a hand to slap it over Dean’s mouth. He pulled off Dean, making sure he had Dean's heated attention before he murmured, "Can you stay quiet for me?"

He felt Dean nodding more than he could see him in the shadows, so he removed his hand and got back to work, taking Dean’s slightly bitter length back onto his tongue. He tightened his lips, sliding up and down, enjoying the way Dean’s breath hitched on each movement. It had been a while since he’d done this, but he knew he’d been good at it in the past. Anything other than fellatio tended to be too messy and potentially risky while hidden in whatever dark corner he’d been able to find in or near officer’s quarters, so he’d quickly worked out the most efficient way to bring his partner to the brink. He’d rather take his time to take Dean apart, but that would have to wait until they had more than a few moments before sunrise.

He ran his fingers along the skin behind Dean’s balls as he took Dean as far into the back of his throat as he could, choking a little as Dean bucked his hips up. Dean covered his own mouth now, to hold in a low groan. “Cas...C-cas, ‘m going to—”

Castiel swallowed as Dean thrust up into his throat, ejaculating with a cry he muffled with his hand again. Castiel waited until Dean slumped back onto the bed, boneless, before he moved to climb up over the top of Dean again, licking his lips. He stopped on his hands and knees, leaning over Dean’s body, and Dean pulled him down with a palm on his cheek to kiss him thoroughly. The idea that he was chasing his own taste on Castiel’s tongue drove Castiel to distraction, and when Dean took his aching length in hand and stroked firmly, it only took him a few moments before he was coating Dean’s stomach and chest in his hot release again.

Castiel panted heavily, resting his forehead against Dean’s momentarily, then leaning down to kiss him with more leisure. “I love you,” he murmured against Dean’s lips.

Dean hummed in agreement as they lost themselves in each other all over again. Eventually, Castiel slid to one side, his head back on his pillow but tucked into Dean’s side.

“Would you please wake me up in that manner from now on?” Dean asked quietly, the smile clear in his voice.

Castiel chuckled, and they traded lazy kisses as the light filtering into the room became brighter.

“I should go,” Dean said eventually, reaching down to the floor to fetch one of the washcloths they’d used to clean up last night. He wiped the sticky mess off himself, then got up to dress in his breeches and undershirt as Castiel watched from his pillows, worrying that this would be the last time he’d enjoy this with Dean. The truth was, they didn’t know what the day would bring, or any afterwards. And it was unlikely that society would ever allow them to be what they wanted to be.

Dean finished tying the laces at the neckline of his shirt, then turned back to Cas, surveying his expression in the rapidly lightening room. “What is it?” he asked, sitting back down on the bed and resting his hand on the other side of Castiel’s legs.

“We’re not going to be able to have this,” Castiel said, his eyes falling—he couldn’t bear to see the disappointment in Dean’s eyes, so he didn’t look.

Dean leaned down, reaching forward to put a hand to Castiel’s cheek, lifting his face so that they made eye contact again. Castiel’s heart gave a dangerous, hopeful sort of lurch.

“Of course we are, Cas. No matter what happens, no matter what they do, we’ll always have each other. I’ll always hold you in my heart, do you understand? No doubts.”

Castiel nodded, uncertain at first, then more firmly as the conviction in Dean’s face bolstered him. He held his own hand over his heart. “No doubts.”

“Very well then,” Dean said, smiling. “I’ll see you at breakfast, m’lord.” He slipped his feet back into his boots and crossed the room to the window, grinning devilishly as he lifted one leg over the sill to climb back out of it.

“Wait, Dean?” Castiel said, sitting up and swinging his legs out of his bed. “Shouldn’t you go through the door this time?”

“The servants will be up and about by now,” Dean replied. “If one of them sees me, this’ll be all over the house by breakfast.”

Castiel bit his lip as he also crossed the room to stand by the window. “I think I’d rather that than have you fall to your death.”

Dean grinned. “I’m fine. There are helpful vines just here, see?” He tried to pull one into view, almost losing his balance in the process.

Castiel grabbed him by the other arm, laughing lightly at his antics. “Just go.”

Dean leaned back in the window and grabbed Castiel’s arm in return, kissing him firmly. “Parting is such sweet sorrow,” he said cheekily, then ducked out through the window, grabbing onto the vines.

Castiel grinned as he heard cursing and grunting as Dean regained his own window, then he stepped back over to his bed, lying back across it, his smile wide. He felt like a prize fool, but still, as though his heart might soar out of his body with joy.

Midsummer’s day was breathtakingly hot, humid, and ominous. Dean hated it, missing London’s cloud cover already. Breakfast was fashionably arranged for around ten in the morning. To work up an appetite, Dean and Castiel joined the rest of the guests in a leisurely walk across the Cotswolds, both of them milking any introductions they could get so as to make an assessment of the female guests. Some of them they already knew, like Becky Rosen and her sisters, but there were quite a few other giggly debutantes that Dean had to endure while the sun began to climb.

Even though he hadn’t found a single clue, Dean found himself damnably relieved to be heading back into Sands House to fill the numerous drawing rooms for breakfast. The only enjoyable parts of the stroll, Dean thought, had been the moments he lifted his eyes to find Castiel’s, or felt his gaze while they walked.

To have to hide his regard for the person he loved most was an atrocious thing, Dean thought, but at least in his positive moments, he could believe that there was some small thrill to be had in keeping a secret love, knowing it was returned. Those small glances, the little smiles, the tid-bits of conversation that were innocent to all around them…they made Dean giddy, and for at least those moments, he could shake the feeling of impending doom.

But, as they moved back into Sands House, impending doom made itself known once more in the name of the inimitable Balthazar Roche.

“Monsieur Winchester!” he trilled, far too perky for the hour. “How was your walk across the hills?”

“Ahh, quite fine,” Dean lied, wiping his brow. “It’s a beautiful day.”

“If you like that kind of thing, I suppose,” Balthazar said dismissively. “The sun on the continent is better, you know.”

“So I’ve been told,” Dean remarked dryly as they approached an oak-paneled, richly furnished drawing room.

“Come, _mon ami,_ sit with me for breakfast.” Balthazar gestured to one of the tables set up in the room, already laden with fruit and cakes for the many guests.

Dean looked around immediately, but Castiel was trapped in a corner of the room by Miss Fox, a vivacious young woman who travelled in Lady Donn’s circle. Their eyes met for a moment, but could not linger, so Dean sat himself down beside his friend. “Very well,” he said, eyeing the spread.

“I was surprised,” Balthazar said, tucking into a Bath bun already, “that you were interested in being introduced to so many of the ladies this morning.”

Dean didn’t miss a beat, but he was immediately wary. “Why on Earth would that be?”

Balthazar gave Dean a tiny little smile he couldn’t quite interpret, but at least appreciated the subtlety of. “I didn’t honestly have you pegged as the marrying sort, _Monseiur,_ and what other reason is there to meet young ladies, _non?_ ” He gave a suggestive eyebrow waggle. “At least that we talk of in polite circles.”

If nothing else, Balthazar’s buoyant company was less dull than most in society, Dean thought; at least he had that to thank this blasted case for.

“Well, you are right about me not being the marrying kind,” Dean said flippantly. “You know we Men of Letters types rarely have time for such things.”

Balthazar made a noncommittal noise.

Dean filled his neat porcelain plate with grapes and hothouse plums and accepted a small cup of warm chocolate as it was offered. Lady Donn was sparing no expense for her guests.

“Well, then I suppose my news will not be as badly received as I had thought,” Balthazar said, with a little grin.

“Oh?” Dean asked, pausing the path of a plum to his mouth.

“Well you see, at one point I was discussing with the youngest Miss Rosen,” Balthazar stopped to flick a smile across the room to where Miss Becky sat, holding giggling court with her friends, “that I thought it would be better to hold a midsummer ball back in London.”

The plum hovered as Dean’s ears tuned in further.

“She was most adamant,” Balthazar continued, “that I was wrong, and we simply _must_ come here for midsummer’s day. ‘The location is vital,’ _apparemment._ ”

“Really?” Dean began carefully, his fruit abandoned back to the plate. That was the most interesting thing he’d heard all morning, and he’d have to tell Castiel as soon as possible. “Whatever is so important about being here at midsummer?”

“Oh, these girls…” Balthazar waved his hands vaguely, spraying a few caraway seeds as he indicated Becky and friends once more, chatting quietly while they breakfasted. “You know what these young women are like, Dean. Particularly Miss Rosen—I hear she reads. They have ideas about setting, location! Romance, drama! Honestly, you Englishmen could learn a thing or two from your women in some ways, _non?”_

Dean squinted, feeling some kind of slight he had no idea how to address. “Well, perhaps,” he agreed, vaguely. “You were saying?”

“Yes, of course. _Mademoiselle_ Rosen was determined that this was the place to be for midsummer, so I kept my objections to the locale to myself. Some of the gentlemen, you see—not the best of them of course, but some of the families from Cheapside and such—they are not able to travel so far for several weeks in the summer, it just will not do, when they are in trade.”

“Ahh,” Dean bobbed his head. “Of course. They can’t leave their businesses.”

“ _Oui._ And they will not send their daughters unchaperoned—there’s no possible way—so if the whole family does not travel, the daughter does not. Unfortunately, that does mean we have more gentlemen than ladies in our party.”

Dean blinked. That was…not where he was expecting the conversation to go.

“But I know you are a good sport about it, eh?” Balthazar said, with a small wink. “I am to stand as Master of Ceremonies for Lady Donn this evening, so of course I will announce that gentlemen may couple the bottom of the dance. I won’t have you and your colleague left out from being last on the guest list; that would reflect poorly on my patronesses’ skills as a hostess, would it not?”

 _Would it?_ Honestly, Dean felt as if he could only keep up with Balthazar half the time. Castiel was really better suited to—

“It would really be a great favor to me if you and Lord Milton would dance the sets. It seems a shame to waste the ladies on you both when neither of you intend to court one,” Balthazar finished with a smiling flourish.

Dean paused momentarily to check that his mouth wasn’t hanging open. It certainly wasn’t unheard of for pairs of gentlemen—or of women—to dance together when the numbers of matched dancing pairs were uneven. As long as the Master of Ceremonies proclaimed it for the dance, it was entirely toward. But the way he’d pulled Dean aside as if to say…

“Are you quite well, _Monsieur?”_ Balthazar looked so concerned, he’d put down his Bath bun.

“Yes—yes,” Dean said hurriedly. He cleared his throat sharply. “Merely disappointed, but I understand your reasoning, of course. In fact, it would be remiss of me not to volunteer to dance with Castiel given the circumstances.”

“I thought you might see the wisdom of it, if I persuaded you,” Balthazar said loudly, loading another bun onto his plate despite not being done with the last. “I know there will be some ladies mighty disappointed, but I’m sure they’ll be mollified when I tell them I thought only of them when I insisted upon it.”

Dean honestly couldn’t make out if Balthazar believed what he was saying, or if this was some scheme by the Frenchman (who had spent so much time socializing with both himself and Castiel for many months now) to offer Dean and Castiel the chance to spend the ball together, respectably, without suspicion or judgement. He couldn’t know, Dean reasoned. It was too new for him to know. And yet…

“You are welcome, too, Monsieur,” Balthazar added quietly, giving Dean a risqué wink before he turned to the chair on his other side, moving right along as if nothing had happened. “Monsieur Gallagher! Lady Donn’s chefs are not French, but I must give them some credit where it’s due…”

Balthazar’s voice dulled into the background as Dean turned their conversation over in his mind. Yes, the dancing would be wonderful—but Becky Rosen. She had insisted that this was the place to be, at midsummer specifically?

Becky was an overly vivacious girl, prone to chatter and perhaps a little less retiring than current manners would dictate, but Dean would never have thought ill of her. He didn’t look down on her for being well read, as some seemed to, or for having a passion about her that many young wallflowers seemed to lack. Alright, he’d agree, being paired with her for dinner once or twice had been a little torturous, but he hadn’t even considered her as an accessory in their case. He’d have to see what Castiel thought—the comment was so little, but all they had.

Unfortunately, it was quite a few more hours before Dean had the chance to speak to Castiel alone.

The day was filled with preparations—for them, as well as their hosts. Dean snuck away for an hour to thoroughly investigate the ballroom while Castiel distracted Balthazar and Lady Donn with discussions of continental foods that Dean felt he could do quite well without, thank you. He’d take a pie any day.

The ballroom was breathtaking, but mundane to his Lettersman’s eye. Dean checked behind every curtain, under the tables being assembled for punch, he even moved furniture, checking for _something_ , anything. Brazenly striding amongst the servants—let them gossip, Dean figured, at least they’d be alive to do so—he traced hands and eyes over every inch of the room. But nothing. It was just a simple, beautiful, ballroom. Eventually he was chased out so that the servants could begin chalking the floor for dancing, as was the fashion, and he left without any more answers.

With that checked off their list, Dean went back to socializing and occupying their hosts while Castiel checked outside, going through every outbuilding and hidden-away garden area Sands House had. When he returned, with muddy breeches and an unexplained scowl, he had no more answers than Dean.

As the day wore on, Dean’s nerves increased.

Eventually, after both a never ending length of time and none at all, Dean found himself back in his guest chamber with Phillip the valet, having his tailcoat buttoned across his chest.

“The rest of the guests are going down now, Mister Winchester,” Phillip observed as he put the final brushing touches to Dean’s shoulders. “If you’d like to go join them.”

“Thank you,” Dean said, dismissing the older man with a smile and dip of his head. He made no move to leave his bedchamber though, even once the valet had departed and the corridor outside was entirely quiet.

He waited a full ten minutes more, before he heard the soft knock at his door.

Opening it, Dean stepped aside quickly to let Castiel within. He carried the black leather weapons bag that accompanied them everywhere, and an elaborate mask beneath his arm, which he dropped atop the dresser out of the way. Lady Donn and Mister Roche had sent the invitations out to declare that the midsummer ball was to be a masquerade; Dean and Castiel still couldn’t quite decide if that worked in their favor, or against them.

“We’ll have to hurry,” Dean said quickly. “We don’t have much time.”

Castiel nodded, dropping the bag and immediately moving over to the small fireplace on the adjacent wall. Dean turned the key in the door, then checked it twice. From the bag, Castiel drew a small vial of green powder, provided by Sam before they left, and threw it into the flames. His nose wrinkled as he did it, seeming displeased, but he did it nonetheless.

“Becky Rosen,” Dean said quickly, fumbling with the buttons on his tailcoat, trying to remove it as swiftly as Phillip had somehow put it on.

The flames in the fireplace roared and crackled, sending odd green light shimmering around the room, filling the air with a strange buzzing sensation for a moment.

“Here,” Castiel said quietly, rising and stepping up to Dean’s front. “Let me; these new ones are always so stiff. Becky Rosen?”

“Balthazar said that she insisted that this was the best place for midsummer,” Dean explained, trying to ignore the way his throat dried out as Castiel’s fingers worked his buttons. This wasn’t the time for that. “Absolutely insisted, apparently, when Balthazar even thought of suggesting otherwise to Lady Donn.”

Castiel raised one heavy, dark eyebrow. “Interesting, but it’s not much.”

“It’s all we’ve got,” Dean countered, shrugging off his coat onto the bed. He reached over and began to return the favor for Castiel.

Their two jackets were side-by-side on the mattress by the time the sparking green flames smoothed out, a strange soft hiss announcing their progression into a glassy, oddly transparent surface.

“Dean?” Sam’s face appeared, greenish but clear, hovering in the fireplace.

On his knees before the hearth, rooting in the weapons bag, Dean looked up and forced a grin toward the frozen flames. “Sammy,” he said, glad to speak to his brother no matter the circumstance.

“How’s it going down there? Do you have any further clues?” Sam asked.

Castiel stood back, glancing slightly mistrustfully at the fireplace, but Dean had many years by then to be used to his brother's witchcraft. It had saved his life more than once, and even Bobby approved—of certain uses of it, at least. Like this: long distance communication that otherwise would take hours and a fast horse at best.

“We have no clear leads,” Dean said surprisingly cheerfully, “and not much clue what we’re going into. Any news up in London?”

“It’s quiet as a grave up here, Dean,” Sam said solemnly. “Bad news for you, but there hasn’t been a body up here since before you left. It seems increasingly likely that whatever, or whoever, is causing the problem went with you.”

Dean and Castiel exchanged a look as Dean stood up. He held two leather weapon harnesses, one in each hand, pulled from the depths of the bag Castiel had carried in the carriage and hidden in his room for the past two days.

“I had a horrible feeling you’d say something like that, Sam,” Castiel said.

“It is good to hear from you too, Castiel,” Sam said, polite still, even if he had progressed—after some persuading—to dropping the lordly title when they were alone. “Look after my brother,” he said bluntly.

“Excuse me?” Dean said, indignant.

“I will,” Castiel said, a small smirk at his lips.

“And he’ll do the same for you,” Sam replied, and even if the picture in the flames didn’t move, Dean could tell that he was smirking too. “You have the book I put together for you? The Latin spells and prayers, words that might help?”

“We do,” Dean confirmed, taking the small, hand-bound book from the bag they’d carried and passing it over to Castiel, to tuck into his interior pocket.

Sam had been just as busy as they, taking the only clue they had about the demons themselves—that they seemed to be repelled by certain holy things—and writing out for them every Catholic chant, exorcism, or prayer that he thought might assist.

Dean was no Latin scholar, but Castiel on the other hand—Dean knew by now that he’d likely have become a priest, if he wasn’t where he was now. Dean had his own faith, faith in Castiel, and that was enough.

Once they’d said their goodbyes to Sam, and instructed him to be ready for any further communication, Dean and Castiel turned back to each other. The flames died back down to whispers of orange, the magic ebbing away as Sam let it go.

Dean was edgy, nervous, but he tried not to let it show.

“Ready for this?” Dean said, bringing one of the leather harnesses up across Castiel’s shoulders and beginning to fasten it under his broad chest. He wished he had more time to appreciate the wide planes of muscle, but he did not. Sadly. Instead, at that moment, he settled for just a single trail of his fingers across the buckle of the harness, reassuring himself it was correct.

The tiniest little thing that he could do to help ensure that Castiel was safe.

“No, not ready at all,” Castiel said. “You?” If he caught Dean’s motion, he let it be, for now at least.

“Not at all,” Dean agreed softly.

They exchanged half-smiles as they went back about their business. They needed to hurry; they couldn’t be missed from the party downstairs. But they couldn’t go in unprepared, either.

Like well-oiled machines, their knives and vials of holy oil slid into their places in the leather contraptions that kept them all suspended, within reach, right beneath their jackets. Dean’s old knife—once his father’s, though actually even older—was safe in a sheath at his side, the rune-like etchings down its serrated blade hidden from view. To their belts, they each added several flasks of holy oil, and their pockets had small books of matches.

Dean picked up Castiel’s tailcoat from the bed, shaking it out gently before bringing it to his shoulders, just as a valet would. Sliding his arms back within, Castiel watched quietly as Dean rebuttoned the front, concealing what was beneath. Dean moved his hands back across the fabric yet again, making sure that every buckle was right, that every strap was in place...and then just once more.

“Dean,” Castiel said softly.

Dean didn’t answer; he had to make sure everything was perfect. Making sure that Castiel was as prepared as he could be was the only way he had to—

“Dean.”

This time, Castiel’s fingers came to cover his. Castiel’s other hand rose up to Dean’s cheek, and it was with his lips pressed to Dean’s forehead that Castiel finally whispered, “You’ve checked it, and double checked it, and triple checked it. I promise you...you’ve done all there is to do.”

On any other day, Dean might have had a flash of embarrassment, perhaps. But on this day, the unknown was beginning to bubble beneath his skin, and his nerves needed some kind of outlet. “It’s not enough,” he murmured back in return.

“It’s all there is,” Castiel reminded him. “We’re Men of Letters, Dean. This is what we do.”

Dean felt a strange flutter of pride, hearing Castiel say it aloud, so certain. He didn’t sound as resentful, or lost, or unsure as he once would have, proclaiming to be a Man of Letters. And yes...the “we” was a nice touch, for Dean, selfishly.

With a fond smile, he reached across to press his lips to Castiel’s before saying, “You’re right. It is what we do. And part of that is that we watch out for each other...now more than ever.”

For what felt like a long moment, they simply looked at each other, staring. They said a lot, but nothing at all.

Eventually, Dean’s fingers drifted nervously back to Castiel’s front, passing over the fabric like a private prayer no one else had ever known. Release buckle, gun, blade, strap...methodic and careful. Castiel didn’t stop him, his eyes watching Dean’s hands move. When he was finally done, Castiel wrapped his hands around Dean’s, squeezing them tightly.

“I love you, too.”

Dean had never felt more understood.

Then, Castiel checked every single buckle and strap of Dean’s harness, just as Dean had done, and neither one of them complained. Once they were both done fussing, they fixed each other’s cravats and shared a last, long kiss before they must appear to be nothing but partners for the night.

They pushed the much-lighter weapon bag under the bed with their toes.

“One more thing that Balthazar mentioned...” Dean said as he reached to the top of the dresser, grabbing his mask as they headed down to the ballroom.

Castiel raised a brow, waiting.

“The ball has more gentlemen than ladies.” Dean couldn’t help but give a tiny, selfish grin. Yes, they had a mission for the evening, even if they were still unclear what that was. But...it was also a ball, where they must blend in.

“More gentleman than ladies,” Castiel echoed, blinking. “Do you mean…”

“He was quite insistent that we shouldn’t keep eligible young ladies from those that are currently out fishing, as it were,” Dean said lightly.

A slow smile began to brighten the blue of Castiel’s eyes, and that—Dean decided—was exactly what he hoped to remember of this evening.


	10. Chapter 10

There was little time for dancing in the early part of the ball. By the time Castiel and Dean had made their way out to join the party, the entrance and hallways near the ballroom were already crowded with the beau monde, their bright masks and gaudy costumes glittering in the light from candelabras around the walls.

They paused in a hallway at the top of the grand staircase to help each other affix their masks. Castiel tied the ribbons of Dean’s black mask behind his head snugly, then couldn’t help smiling at Dean as he turned around to face him. The black mask was trimmed with a deep green fabric around the edge, that both matched his deep green waistcoat and brought out the color of his eyes, even in the dim gaslight of the hallway. He quickly glanced up and down the hall to check for any other guests or staff, and finding it deserted, leaned in to quickly place a kiss on Dean’s lips.

Dean’s hand lingered on Castiel’s face as they broke apart again, and he murmured, “Do not do anything stupid.”

“I’ll try,” Castiel replied, one brow raised. He lifted his own blue-trimmed mask up to his eyes and turned so Dean could fasten it for him. “You must also promise me the same, though.”

When Castiel turned back to Dean, the man had a cheeky quirk to his mouth. “No promises. At least until we work out what we’re dealing with here.” He adjusted Castiel’s cravat distractedly until Castiel grabbed his hands, pulling them down and away from his clothes.

He desperately wished they had more inkling as to what might happen, but until something did, they would have to join the ball. He looked into Dean’s eyes, willing him to be calm. “Keep your wits about you. Stay away from the liquor.”

“Moi?” Dean asked, looking affronted. “You won’t see me dancing without a little punch, at least.”

Castiel snorted fondly, and they turned to descend the staircase, together, but a respectable distance apart. Castiel eyed the crowd below, unable to pick out anyone familiar in their masked finery. The entrance of the house was stifling after the hot day, the press of people and the multitude of candles only adding to the close atmosphere. Ladies’ fluttered fans in their flushed faces, and an unpleasant mixture of perfumes clogged the air.

Their hostess herself greeted a long line of guests entering the house, and her eyes lit up when she saw Castiel and Dean approaching her. The three of them bowed deeply to each other.

Lady Donn smiled, her eyes dark behind her gilded mask as she looked them up and down. She said, “Welcome, Lord Milton, Mister Winchester. Don’t you both look delightful tonight? I’m so pleased that so many strapping young men are in attendance!”

Castiel shared a quick glance with Dean before they both murmured their thanks and moved on into the ballroom, leaving her to greet the next in line.

The ballroom was lit with large, suspended candelabra, even though the late sun still shone out over the gardens outside. The glass-paneled doors were opened wide to a stone balcony outside, and most of the guests were out there, admiring the gardens as they chased a breeze. A small orchestra played on a stage on one side of the room, their pleasant music ringing out across the chalked space that would soon fill with dancers.

Dean made a beeline for the punch table, and Castiel followed behind, rescinding his decision not to drink already. The atmosphere in the room was close, and a trickle of sweat ran down his back as he stood waiting for his cup. Dean turned and handed him his punch, nodding his head towards a group of women standing not far away. Becky Rosen’s voice could be heard overtop of all the others, enthusing about something or other.

Castiel tilted his head questioningly at Dean. Was he going to go and speak to Miss Rosen?

Before Dean could explain himself, Arthur Ketch appeared at Castiel’s elbow, bowing almost violently in a splendid red-trimmed mask.

“Lord Milton! How pleasant to see you again.”

“Colonel Ketch, a pleasure. May I present my colleague, Dean Winchester?”

The two men exchanged pleasantries, before Dean excused himself. “I promised the ladies over there a dance. Have a good evening, sir.”

Castiel knew Dean had promised nothing of the sort, but he nodded with a smile as Dean brushed his shoulder on the way past. He turned back to Ketch, saying, “I trust your family are well?”

“Yes, yes,” he said, dismissing his wife and new baby son by waving his hand, “but Milton, have you seen the papers today? Boney has been defeated!”

“What?”

“There was a great battle at a place called, uh,"—he waved his hand around as he tried to remember—"Waterloo! Not three days ago. The French were holed up in a town there in the lowlands, and Wellington held them at bay for a few days, while Blücher's Prussians attacked from the other side. The paper had glowing reports about the cavalry charge; you should read it!”

Something clenched hard in Castiel's stomach at the news. Part of him ached that he'd missed a major battle—the glory, the exhilaration of hundreds of men with swords raised, their horses flying towards the enemy, hooves flying—a cavalry charge was a unique experience, one that he'd never tired of in his years abroad.

Another part remembered, though, what came next. Blood flying, screaming men and horses…

He quickly tamped the memories down, focusing on keeping his breath steady, remembering instead Dean’s words from earlier this morning: _No doubts_. He was here, in the present, and he refocused on the details of the battle Ketch was still recounting.

When he could get a word in, he asked, “What about the amassed armies? Napoleon’s allies?”

“The army was routed. They’re on their way back to Paris, or should be there by now, I’d wager. Wellington will be hot on their heels. The war’s about to be over, Milton.”

As Ketch moved away to deliver the news to others, Castiel mulled over the way events had unfolded. The war, over? He could barely believe it. Even if this battle had been as great a defeat as it sounded, while Napoleon still drew breath, he wouldn't stop.

Castiel's head started to spin—he rubbed at his forehead above the mask. He may have narrowly headed off an episode, but he still needed air. He subconsciously gravitated towards Dean as he crossed the room, but ran into Balthazar as he skirted the chalk.

"Castiel, are you well?" the Frenchman said, placing a hand on Castiel's shoulder and peering into his face. "You look pale, _mon ami_."

Balthazar's hand on his shoulder was unexpectedly grounding. Castiel looked into his friend's face, unsure of how they'd ever suspected him as a villain. The true villain, as yet unknown, could well still be here. Castiel’s resolve hardened. He may have been pulled from one conflict on the continent and placed in the middle of another, but he would bloody well do his duty here instead.

“Monsieur Roche, I am fine, I assure you," Castiel murmured, leaning close to Balthazar as they both looked out over the dancers. "But I must ask a favor of you.”

Balthazar's eyebrows rose, and he chuckled lightly. “Ah, _je suis flatté_ , but I’m afraid I’m not that way inclined. I thought you had your Mister Winchester for that sort of thing?”

Castiel blinked at him in surprise for a few moments before he realized what Balthazar was insinuating. “What? No, no, that’s not what I mean,” he hurried to say. He took a moment to wonder how Balthazar knew about him and Dean and decided it could wait. “I have reason to believe that there are enemy operatives in attendance here tonight.”

Balthazar’s jaw dropped, and he glanced around quickly in surprise. “ _Non_ , that cannot be. I would know! I came to this country to get away from the war!”

Castiel hushed him quickly, as a few people close to them turned around curiously. “No, don’t make a fuss. This is just something that Winchester and I have been working on for the last few months. If things start happening tonight, whatever that may entail, can I count on your aid?”

“ _Zut alors_ , Milton, I told you, I am not a fighter!” Balthazar said, his eyes wide.

Castiel sighed, frustrated. “Just take this,” he said, passing Balthazar two of the small vials of holy oil he had stashed in a belt pouch. “Drop it on the floor, light it on fire. Can you do that?” He looked hard into Balthazar’s eyes as the taller man gulped.

“ _Oui_ , I will try,” he said, nodding.

Castiel noticed Dean and Becky Rosen, of all people, approaching from nearby. To Balthazar, he said, “Thank you,” bowing slightly from the waist. “Carry on as if nothing is amiss. We may be mistaken, but I wanted you to be prepared.”

Balthazar returned the bow, nodding as he pocketed the vial. “I’ll call a dance.” He turned to walk towards the orchestra, clapping his hands. “Come now, _mes amis_ , let’s have another dance!”

Miss Becky's eyes were alight with curiosity as she curtseyed to Castiel. "Lord Milton? What is afoot? I saw you mention enemy operatives to Monsieur Roche, there. Is there to be an _insurgency_?" She rolled the word around on her tongue, as though delighted by the possibility.

Castiel stared at her, then shared an incredulous glance with Dean, who merely shrugged lightly. How could she have overheard above the hubbub? They had been easily ten feet away.

"How—?" he began.

Becky interrupted him with a raised hand, speaking quietly. "My love of mysteries has led me to practice many things, one of which is reading the lips of speakers out of hearing range. What is that you gave to Monsieur Roche? Give one to me also—I would like to help."

"Miss Rebecca," Dean began, after sharing another meaningful glance with Castiel, "I am not sure I want you to be—"

"Mister Winchester," Becky interrupted firmly. "I assure you, I am quite as capable of dropping a glass and setting it aflame as the next Frenchman." She held out her hand to Castiel expectantly.

Dean nodded at Castiel, who frowned as he withdrew another vial from his belt and dropped it into Becky’s hand. “Wait for my signal, please.”

“Very well,” Becky said, tucking the vial into her reticule. “I’ll stand by.” She stepped away from them, heading towards the punch table.

As Balthazar arranged the musicians and couples for the dance, Castiel leaned in to speak quietly with Dean. “I take it she’s no longer a suspect.”

“No,” Dean said, his eyes on the dancers forming up in their set. “But she’s turned my attention to another.”

Castiel glanced at Dean, eyebrow raised. It seemed that Dean had a bit of a flair for the dramatic.

Dean continued, “Lady Donn’s house at Kew has been undergoing renovations all year. She has been staying in apartments in St. James’s Street, above Monsieur Roche’s club.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, as Dean grimaced. Castiel turned to scan the crowd over where he’d last spied Lady Donn, seeing her presiding over the dancers from the top of the set. Could it be? Their hostess, also the sorceress?

Balthazar’s voice rang out over the crowd. “We need more couples for the dance, please! Lord Milton must step in. Come, gentlemen!” Balthazar came closer, tugging on Dean’s sleeve and throwing Castiel a wink as he directed them into position at the bottom of the set.

Castiel looked across at Dean as they lined up. Dean looked delighted to be found in this situation—Castiel suspected he might have gotten into the punch after all—but he was not quite so excited to finally get their dance. He couldn’t see Lady Donn from here, and it made him anxious.

The music began and they watched as the dancers moved apart slightly, allowing Lady Donn and her partner to step their spritely way through the steps of the reel that had been chosen. Castiel eyed her as she danced, wondering if she could possibly be the one responsible for the demon invasion. She was eccentric, to be sure, and the odd necklace around her throat was among the most ugly he’d ever seen, but was she capable of such magic as would be needed to summon demons? Why would she do such a thing? The idea was preposterous.

He and Dean followed the dance, stepping forward and back, then switching places with one gloved hand raised and palms pressed together. Dean shared a secret smile with Castiel as they came together again.

Castiel found himself relaxing slightly as Dean’s proximity warmed him. The masks they wore allowed them to share longer stares than they might otherwise have done, and the crowd would be none the wiser. As Castiel stepped behind Dean and placed his hand on Dean’s waist, Dean leaned into him slightly, long enough for a shiver to run up Castiel’s back. He wished things were simpler, that they lived in a world where they could be this close all the time, without the judgement of society.

Instead, he decided to enjoy this moment, while it lasted.

Dean had spent his entire adult life as one of the Men of Letters, and even as a younger child he had been much more aware than most of what his father and Uncle Bobby had been doing in London for all of these years. He had learned to have his fun where he could get it, even in the midst of horrors the likes of which would make most of society swoon.

Castiel, Dean thought as they danced jovially, seemed not to have quite the same amount of ease and _joie de vivre_ when there were looming disasters. It made sense to Dean—Castiel’s tense moments up until this year of his life had probably involved a gun in his face or a cannon eliminating a friend at close quarters. The guns, Dean had certainly experienced. But generally speaking, there weren’t many trenches, cannons, or sweeping cavalry charges in the center of London.

And so, Dean was determined to ensure that Castiel relaxed where he could. They needed to be vigilant, rather than anxious. The music swelled beautifully around them—Lady Donn had spared no expense on an elegant, enthusiastic quartet—and Dean stepped in once more, raising his hand to Castiel’s palm. They moved around each other in a circle, hands joined, and Dean took the chance to gently squeeze Castiel’s fingers. Their eyes locked through their masks, and Dean used the moment when his back was to most of the dancers to send Castiel the most dazzling, flirtatious smile he could muster.

Castiel blinked honey-slow, dazed and sweet and sluggish, and Dean had to fight down a laugh as Castiel caught himself right before he mistepped, almost throwing off the dance.

“Everything well, Lord Milton?” Dean said as they stepped together, nonchalant and grinning.

“Yes, indeed.” Castiel cleared his throat, his tone very clear: _You know exactly what you did, Dean. Stop it._

Dean did not stop it. In fact, he used every opportunity to throw Castiel off. He dragged his hand across Castiel’s back; he let their fingers linger and entwine unnecessarily; he was pointed and heavy with his stares. When they stepped back toward each other, Dean couldn’t help his gleeful grin at the sharp intake of breath Castiel took. Castiel was glaring daggers at him, but couldn’t disguise the tiny uptick at the corner of his mouth.

As the music rose to a final crescendo, they spun around to complete the reel that had been chosen for the first dance. As all the men on Dean’s side of the set bent forward over their ladies’ hands graciously, Dean followed their cue with a wicked grin. If his lips met the back of Castiel’s knuckles, if his fingers traced a soft circle on the inside of Castiel’s wrist, then no one would know beyond his large mask, he was sure.

Looking up at Castiel’s wide eyes, sparkling bright blue in the glittering candelabra lights of the ballroom, Dean gave him another lingering grin.

“Another, m’lord?” he asked, watching Castiel’s reactions to his teasing with delight.

“Oh, yes, Mister Winchester,” Castiel answered solemnly, his eyes dark and determined as he looked right back. “Certainly, it would be remiss of us not to keep the floor filled with couples, wouldn’t it?”

 _Uh oh,_ Dean thought with utter delight. _I’m in trouble._

They smiled at each other secretly. Dean was pleased with himself; Castiel seemed much relaxed since the beginning of the set, much less on edge—though his eyes still moved around and settled immediately on Lady Donn once they straightened up, Dean noticed. As they should.

He was about to lean in and whisper to Castiel, propose some plan where one of them could approach the Lady and ask for a dance after their next, when Balthazar clapped his hands loudly for attention. Lady Donn made her way to the top of the dancers, commanding the room as she took a fresh glass of champagne wine from her hovering butler.

“Good evening, everyone!” she began pleasantly, commanding the room easily with her loud, melodic speaking voice.

There were murmurs and bows in return, and of course Dean and Castiel followed suit. They exchanged a worried look. The whole ballroom turned their attention to their host, crowding forward to hear her.

Dean’s hands went subtly within his jacket, his fingers checking over the weapons within it while he was disguised in the crowd. From the corner of his eye, he could see Castiel smoothing his jacket down, no doubt doing the same nervous checks that Dean had begun.

“I am honored to have you all here this evening,” Lady Donn began. “This room holds some of the country’s finest, strongest bodies, if you will allow me to flatter you all for a minute—all of you are here at my invitation, hand picked, and looking out at all of you dancing and mingling brings me a great sense of satisfaction.”

Her words were a little odd, perhaps, but not overtly alarming. Dean felt Castiel step toward him slightly, and he returned the gesture until their arms pressed together faintly from elbow to shoulder. It was tender and subtle and reassuring, and Dean was more glad than ever that Castiel had decided to have them come together before all of this began.

“Today, we are here to celebrate midsummer,” Lady Donn continued. She clasped her glass between her fingers tightly. Was it from nerves, or anticipation? Dean couldn’t make her out. “But today also brings us news from overseas—the routing of Napoleon’s armies! They are headed right back to Paris, with Wellington hot on their heels, we hear.”

A cheer went up in the crowd. Dean’s fingers sought Castiel’s briefly, just the tiniest touch, but he couldn’t spare a look, all of his concentration on Lady Donn.

She was frowning, oddly, and he couldn’t make her out.

“Well, this will not do,” she said, much more softly than the rest of her speech.

Castiel tensed beside him, and Dean felt his own shoulders tighten. What was this?

Lady Donn still held her glass in her right hand, but her left rose to her clavicle, settling above the elegant lace ruffle of her formal dress. Her fingers wrapped tight around her jewelry—the chunky, unfashionable necklace the Dean recalled her always wearing. It was the type of thing that must be a family heirloom, as it was far too ugly for any jeweler worth his London salary to make.

“What’s she doing?” Castiel whispered at Dean’s side.

At that moment, Dean honestly had no answer. His eyes were locked on Lady Donn, taking in her frowning face, the wrinkles at her brow as she scowled out across the ballroom.

“This war,” she was saying, “has cost much. Endless bloodshed. My own husband, you know, was lost to this war...sent to his death by the great British army.”

Her tone was mocking.

“No,” Dean breathed out in surprise. “She can’t possibly—”

“Bonaparte would have won long ago, and brought such wonderful revolution to this corner of the world, if our leaders hadn’t kept throwing our boys to their deaths,” Lady Donn’s voice rose with the terrifying energy of a true fanatic. “He’ll have help, now. My Frederick’s death will be avenged when Boney walks on our shores, and eliminates the bumbling fools that took him from me.”

“Her husband was a prisoner of war,” Castiel said suddenly, sounding utterly horrified. “It happens, that we can’t get our boys back, or they pass before they are reached, sometimes—a tragedy, of course, but surely she can’t hold us responsible for—”

Dean registered Castiel’s _“us”_ before his voice was drowned out by the growing discomfort in the crowd, mumblings and shoutings and horrified looks being exchanged around the room.

Even as the party goers expressed their confusion at her words, Dean’s eyes were seeking out the few allies he knew they had amongst the crowd.

Balthazar stood off to their hostess’ side, staring. His mouth was slightly open, his face pale. His hand, though, was hovering at his belt, uncertain. A good sign. Perhaps the Frenchman could be relied upon after all.

Lady Donn’s lips were still moving, but her voice had dropped. Whatever she was saying was no longer for the crowd.

“Dean!” Castiel called out, grasping at his elbow. “Look!”

Dean followed Castiel’s pointing arm to Lady Donn’s throat. Between the fingers of her clenched fist at her neck, an eerie red glow seeped out, casting odd shadows under her jaw as it grew.

Squinting against the growing light, Dean tried his best to read her lips. Like Becky earlier, it was a skill he’d honed over the years, and was often quite useful as a Men of Letters operative, but it relied on him understanding the language he was seeing spoken.

“Shit,” Dean hissed under his breath. “She’s speaking Latin, I think. I can make out a little of it, but not enough to be useful.”

Simultaneously, Dean and Castiel began to push their way cautiously forward, trying to get closer. They’d made it past a few gasping, scandalized couples that had been a part of the dancing set before they heard the noise.

At the same moment, perfectly in sync, Dean and Castiel both stopped. Frozen.

The sound was a distant roaring, growing louder. It felt familiar to Dean...uncomfortably so.

The room was growing darker. Dean had assumed that the sun was setting, but as the noise drew his attention away from Lady Donn directly, he realized that the great floor-to-ceiling glass windows that adorned the whole left side of the ballroom were dim—no, black. It was like night had fallen suddenly, enveloping the outside of Sands House in inky darkness.

The darkness moved.

Castiel was still watching Lady Donn, rapt and furious looking, and at first he didn’t respond to Dean tapping at his arm. So Dean reached across and grabbed Castiel’s shoulders, forcibly turning him to look at the window.

Blinking, they both took in the writhing, rolling, black mass of smoke beyond the glass.

 _Demons..._ hundreds, perhaps more. All circling the building, looking for any way in, pressing against the glass.

“Oh my God,” Castiel hissed desperately, apparently far past worrying about taking his Lord’s name in vain.

Dean was definitely on the same page. There was a time for subtlety and protecting the populace from uncomfortable truths—but this surely wasn’t it. Fingers flying to his chest buttons, Dean began to pull off his jacket as the roaring grew louder, beginning to drown out the concerned cries of the partygoers.

Castiel was barely a movement behind him, stripping off his outer layers to reveal his weapons beneath.

“Lady Donn is the key,” Dean barked quickly, though he was sure Castiel already knew. “We have to get to her before they—”

A tinkling sound drew Dean’s attention to the top of the right-most window, just a split second before the glass shattered with a resounding _CRACK._

They poured in.

Castiel saw the first person possessed, watching with a sick fascination as the demon smoke poured through the shattered window and descended on a man nearby—Castiel couldn’t see who it was behind the man’s mask as he convulsed for a moment. Partygoers around him backed away, their faces aghast, but when he became still and turned to survey the ballroom, his eyes completely black, one of the ladies screamed, shattering the frozen horror of the onlookers.

Chaos descended as masked people started shouting and screaming, running away from the windows. The demons were now swarming through both the broken window and the open doors, streaming down and into the mouths and noses of people they caught.

Castiel and Dean immediately began to shout, trying to encourage people to get away and out of the inner ballroom doors to safety within the house. Castiel grabbed the elbow of a man frozen in panic, directing him to move quickly to the back of the room, while Dean helped up a lady who had fallen to the floor in a dead faint. He led her away, and as Castiel turned to quickly check how many civilians were still in the room, he saw Baththazar ducking out the ballroom door with the crowds of fleeing gentry. So much for the bravery of the French, he thought, disappointed.

Resolutely turning back to the fray, he saw that some of the demon-possessed people had walked forward to face Lady Donn where she still stood on the stage, a wicked grin on her face. The demons forced their vessels to bow before her, but Castiel noticed that some were not moving well. Blood dripped from their noses and ears, and one or two started convulsing, falling to the floor as their demon abandoned the body.

Castiel turned to try to locate Dean, following him to the back of the ballroom, where Balthazar had reappeared with a sword he’d grabbed from somewhere inside the house. Castiel doubted it was sharp, or indeed whether Balthazar had any idea how to use the damned thing, but he reprimanded himself for doubting the Frenchman.

Dean handed off the lady he’d been helping to someone at the doorway, and he turned to rejoin Castiel facing the demon incursion.

Castiel really wasn’t sure how to approach this threat. He had no idea what the demons were capable of, other than the few they’d had contact with before, and all they had on their side were himself and Dean, protected by their Letters’ tattoos, plus a slightly eccentric Frenchman with a blunt sword, and a dwindling group of terrified men of the elite class who had likely never faced anything larger than a fox in combat. He sighed.

Dean brandished the jagged knife he’d hidden earlier in his boot, but just as Castiel pulled out his own long, silver dagger he’d concealed in his own boot, Lady Donn spoke again, her words sending a chill down Castiel’s spine.

“Yes, welcome, creatures of the other realm! Welcome to Earth! Together, we will bring this country to her knees. Seek out the strong—many of the ruling class are in this room tonight. Take them, and we will advance on London.”

The demons gathered around her, some standing quiet and still, while others lurched around and convulsed until they collapsed to the floor, the demons abandoning their hosts to seek another.

The trail of bodies across the floor was starting to grow alarmingly, and Castiel wondered whether those people were still alive, and how he and Dean might be able to aid them. But before he could move forward at all, demon smoke billowed towards where he stood. He shouted, “No!” and slashed at the smoke ineffectually, but as it swirled around him, he felt the skin between his shoulder blades burn, like he’d been branded there. A disembodied voice hissed in his ear, and the smoke released him, instead rushing to someone standing nearby. To…

“Dean?” Castiel asked urgently, as the smoke swirled around him, flashing and sparking slightly as Dean slashed the knife around in the air at it. He’d wondered if there was something magical about that blade...

Castiel fumbled at his belt pouch, intending to pull out one of his remaining vials of holy oil, but instead what he saw turned his blood to ice. The demon smoke was pouring into Dean’s mouth, making him shudder and shake on his feet. Castiel stared as Dean turned panicked eyes to him. Were all their demon protections for nothing? Dean’s tattoo! But they’d left Castiel alone! The burning on his skin, though—it had been on his back, the site of his holy tattoos. Could it be that it protected him, but the Letters’ Aquarian star would not?

Dean was shaking with the effort of holding the demon inside him at bay as Castiel darted forwards, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Cast it out, Dean. Stay with me, man!”

Dean cried out, and lifted his shaking hand, dropping the knife with what looked like supreme effort. “C-Cas—” he said, his eyes wild.

“What is it?” Castiel pressed, quickly looking around him to ensure their position here was secure for the time being.

Dean looked into Castiel’s eyes, his obvious fear making Castiel’s catch his breath. “K-kill me,” Dean bit out, then he went slack in Castiel’s grasp.

 _No_. “No,” Castiel muttered aloud, shaking Dean by the shoulders, then holding him up as his knees buckled. “Dean!” This couldn’t be happening.

Dean stumbled a little as he regained his footing, and Castiel gasped with relief, but when Dean opened his eyes, Castiel saw, with absolute horror, they were black.

They both turned to dive for the knife, lying on the floor by their feet, but Castiel managed to get his hands on it first. He tried to straighten up, but Dean was on him, throwing him to the floor with surprising strength so that he landed heavily on his back on the parquet. Castiel knew he had the advantage of technique, though, twisting his leg around to assist him in throwing Dean over so that it was his turn to slam into the wooden flooring.

Castiel brought the knife to Dean’s throat, leaning on Dean’s chest with his other elbow and hating himself for it.

The demon in Dean snarled. “Go on,” it drawled, still not quite in control of Dean’s body. “Do it.”

He pressed the knife into the skin under Dean’s jaw. “Get out of him,” he growled.

The demon just laughed, twisting Dean’s features into an expression that Dean would never have worn. “No, this one is very strong, the Lady Donn made sure we would have the sweetest offerings. You’ve failed, holy man. Surrender.”

He had to do this, for the good of the country—for the world, even. But his heart ached, like a knife was already stuck through. How could he be expected to kill the man he loved, even if it would rid them of one demon among many? Just like Dean had been forced to kill Benny?

The demon struggled beneath his hold, as he tried to take stock of what he had. The vial of holy oil—not much use at close range. He needed to get to Lady Donn and stop her before she summoned any more of the creatures, before they could go to London. The knife was his only hope, but he couldn’t use it. Could he? Dean’s face started to blur in front of Castiel’s eyes, and he angrily dashed the tears out of them with one sleeve.

He was spared from making a decision by someone grabbing him by the back of his coat and pulling him away from Dean, then a flame sprung up in his face. He cried out, thinking someone had actually set Dean on fire, but the line of burning holy oil was between them, and Becky was holding the empty vial beside him. Castiel gaped at her, and Balthazar shouted in his ear, “Go! We’ll hold them.”

The two of them must have got most of the civilians out of the room while he’d been busy with Dean, then sealed off the area near the door with holy oil. The demon in Dean flinched back from the burning line, and Balthazar shoved Castiel in the shoulder. “It won’t hold him for long! Hurry!”

Castiel took a step back from the fire, his heart aching more as the distance increased. There had to be something he could do that wouldn’t mean killing him!

Becky called to him, “That ugly necklace, Lord Milton! Destroy it!”

He nodded to her, turning resolutely. He’d start with the first task, and worry about the demons afterwards. He strode across the floor towards Lady Donn, knife held tightly in his fist.

He was drowning.

Dean fought and fought and fought with everything he had, but he was choking.

He could feel the weight of his own limbs; he was losing track of his edges.

Screams echoed around his mind—they might have been his. How could he tell? How could he even make a sound, when all he could taste or breathe or feel was his own blood, welling up and asphyxiating him from within?

_CAS!_

The sight of his love’s face—Dean couldn’t stand it, watching the tears well up in Castiel’s eyes as he realized what was happening. He screamed out in anger, but it was just a burble, a sick slick sludgy splutter of blood that had no effect on his outer body at all. Dean heard his own voice…but it wasn’t his voice, was it? It was a rough, grotesque, barking mockery of his voice as it taunted Castiel.

 _“You’ve failed, holy man. Surrender,”_ it rasped. Dean had a front-row seat to Castiel’s struggle, his wild, glassy eyes full of panic and horror and sorrow.

_No—no. Kill me, Cas, please…be stronger than me, don’t make my mistakes._

Dean shouldn’t be thinking about Benny right now, of all people, but he could do little _but_ think—his eyes were blinded by the flare of holy fire as it ripped in front of him, foiling the...the _thing_ that was riding him around.

Dean screamed soundlessly, until the feeling of blood sliding down his throat finally silenced him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
>  _Zut alors_ \- an exclamation equivalent to “damn”


	11. Chapter 11

Becky kept pace with Castiel across the ballroom. Castiel didn’t slow, not until Becky wrapped her hand around his arm, stopping him with a surprisingly firm grip. “That...that thing. It called you ‘holy man.’”

He turned to look at her—her eyes were wide, but her mouth was set in a determined line. She spoke harshly, but quietly. “Lord Milton, sir. I beg you, do not be hasty. Look how many of them there are.”

Castiel quickly looked back to the end of the ballroom, where there were a growing number of erstwhile ball attendees, clamouring around Lady Donn. She surveyed them from above, her face ecstatic, as more black smoke poured in through the windows and doors, setting the candelabra flames dancing wildly.

Back behind Castiel and Becky, the remaining non-possessed folk lingered. Some held makeshift weapons, while it appeared others had followed Balthazar’s example and fetched swords and other weaponry from the house’s impressive displayed arsenal. One elderly woman—Castiel thought her name was Lady Mildred—held a small battle axe gripped in her two hands, a fierce expression on her face.

Castiel turned back to Becky. “Miss Becky, I am begging you, please take the other women and hide somewhere safe in the upper rooms of the house.”

Becky straightened her shoulders. “You are greatly mistaken, sir, if you think I am for one moment going to leave this room. Tell me why he called you a holy man.”

Castiel stared at her in surprise for barely a second, before he replied, “The demon couldn’t take me because of the holy tattoos I carry on my back.”

Becky’s eyes widened. “Demons? Is that what they are? Are you certain it was the tattoo?”

“Yes, yes,” Castiel replied impatiently, while she looked back over her shoulder at the congregated demons.

Lady Donn was looking out over her flock, a frown creasing her forehead as more of them fell to the floor, demon smoke spiraling back upwards to the ceiling.

“What is this?” she called out. “I was sure this party would have the necessary strong vessels. Fetch others, quickly. Before she arrives.”

Castiel watched as the roiling clouds above their heads streamed over towards the civilian crowd, a few of whom now held torches made from cloth wet with Balthazar’s holy oil supplies. The demons hovered around the room, keeping well away from the holy fire, but one or two still managing to take humans from the edges of the group. Castiel had to admire the Frenchman’s ingenuity before turning back towards Lady Donn. Who was this other “she” she’d mentioned? The idea of there being some other entity coming sent a chill dread through him.

“We must press on before more are possessed,” he said to Becky, stepping resolutely back towards Lady Donn and away from Dean, now pacing behind his fiery prison. Castiel wondered briefly why the demon didn’t just ditch Dean as a vessel and fly away from the flames, but shook his head and focused on the task ahead. How were they going to get past all these demons?

“Castiel,” Becky said, her hand still clutching his arm. “How is your grasp of Latin?”

“Latin? I—Passable, I suppose.”

“Only I read a book where a young girl was possessed by a demon in a small town somewhere north of here, perhaps the Lake District, I’m not really sure, and she was terribly under the weather and started vomiting and throwing things around the room without touching them. It was dreadfully exciting—”

“Miss Becky!” he said, urgently interrupting her. "Is this really the time?"

Lady Donn had started chanting again, this time loudly in Latin. Castiel could only make out every other word, though—something about arriving, perhaps?

"Yes, yes, sorry," Becky blustered. "In any case, the point is that they cast the demon out with an exorcism.”

Castiel struggled to work out what she was talking about. “An exorcism? In Latin?” As he spoke the words, the memory resurfaced of Dean passing him the notebook that Sam had provided. Latin spells...untested, unproven, but perhaps within were the words for the exorcism? It wasn’t exactly a prayer one learned at Sunday school—Castiel was going to need help with it.

He fumbled in his coat pocket for the book, as Becky nodded. They both turned as Lady Donn finished her chant and threw her hands upwards, a triumphant grin on her face. A darkness, even darker than the black smoke obscuring the outside world, seemed to descend around the house. The candles in the ballroom guttered and died as something flowed into the room, something cold and malevolent. Through the dim haze in the ballroom, Castiel could see the new darkness coalescing into an even darker cloud, and it hovered over the stage where Lady Donn stood to receive it.

Becky darted forward, shouting “Come, Lord Milton! Let us attack!”

Castiel had no choice but to follow, sure he was about to witness the girl’s gruesome death, but instead, she pulled a small flintlock out of her reticule, cocked it, and fired into the smokey apparition. It rotated, seeming to move towards and regard Becky for a moment, then it lunged for her. Becky shrieked briefly before the smoke poured itself down her throat.

Lady Donn started screaming, “No, you were supposed to take me! Take me, not that piece of lowly garbage!”

Becky straightened up, her eyes closed. Then she tilted her head to the side until it _cracked_ in an unsettling way. She opened her eyes—black as night, as she turned her head with an unnatural movement to regard Lady Donn staring wide-eyed from the stage.

“Oh, do shut up,” the creature said, in Becky’s voice, but sounding unlike Becky in every way. “I prefer this one. She has courage! My thanks for opening the door, dear one,” the thing said to Lady Donn, “but it seems I have found a better offering.” She stepped heavily over to her, then lifted the glowing necklace from her neck, pulling it violently to snap the chain. “I require this, now,” she said abruptly, turning Becky’s face away and lifting her palm towards Lady Donn. Somehow, without touching her, she _pushed_ , throwing Lady Donn’s body across the stage until her back hit the panelled wall with a thud and she slid to the floor, unconscious.

Castiel shouted, “No!” and moved forward, brandishing the knife, but Miss Becky merely raised her other hand.

Baring her teeth, she hissed, “Men of Letters? Didn’t I already deal with you and your ilk?” A force slammed into Castiel, sending him crashing to the floor and skidding along the chalk like a leaf in the wind. He felt as though he’d been back and forth across this ballroom so many times, he might as well still be dancing a quadrille.

As he rolled to a stop not far from the corner where Dean still paced, he sat up, shaking the dizziness out of his head. He looked towards Dean, who was scowling at the holy flames still burning around him.

The flames would be out soon, though. Balthazar and his rag-tag defenders were still halfway across the ballroom, waving their torches at the remaining demons. Castiel wouldn’t be able to secure more holy oil in time.

But what about Becky’s idea? Could he waste precious moments digging through the notebook that Sam had given him?

Behind him, the demon queen, or whatever she was, had walked up to the stage, lifting her hands to address the demons. “Come, my friends. Find your most hardy vessels. We will take this realm by storm!” The demons howled, their cries chilling.

Castiel had perhaps a few split seconds to try to get the demon out of Dean and get him back on his side again. Opening the notebook, he flicked quickly through the dozen or so pages covered in Sam’s neat handwriting.

Yes! The words “Exorcism” were printed across the top of one page, and he quickly got closer to Dean, chanting them aloud.

_“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”_

As he’d begin reciting the Latin, the demon flinched, cowering behind Dean’s arms as it held them up. As Castiel reached partway into the prayer, though, the flames finally flickered out.

The demon sprang at Castiel with a cry, but he hung onto the notebook and managed to sidestep, swinging the demon around by the edges of Dean’s coat. He glanced at the paper and continued hurriedly.

_“Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi—”_

Dean rushed him again, swinging a punch, but Castiel ducked under it, still muttering.

_“—tibi facias libertate servire—”_

The demon shoved Castiel back, slamming Castiel’s back against the wall and holding him there with his forearm as he growled into his face. He thumped Castiel’s hand against the wall, trying to knock the knife out of it—once, twice. The knife fell to the floor with a clatter, but Castiel had been looking the other way to read the last line of the incantation.

_“—te rogamus, audi nos!”_

The demon stopped, stepped back, and doubled over, retching. A black, smoky mess vomited up out of Dean’s gullet, singing the floor where it fell and leaving glowing scorch marks. Dean collapsed to his knees, and Castiel stooped to help him up again, not daring to hope that it had worked.

Dean looked up and blinked, and Castiel’s knees nearly gave out in relief. His voice wavering, Dean asked, “Cas?”

The feeling of fresh air filling Dean’s mouth, flowing down his scorched throat and into his lungs, was one of unparalleled pleasure. He’d thought he was dead, for sure. He’d been trapped, watching the demon use his body, choking and screaming in horror and revulsion.

Unable to stop it.

It had been, single-handedly and without question, the most terrifying experience of Dean’s life.

When he thought that the demon might kill Castiel—that _he_ might kill him—he’d about given up. Dean could not have faced it…he couldn’t watch the spark dull from those blue eyes that he so loved to gaze at. Those eyes were like flames in water, if such a thing had been possible. Intelligence under ice, passion in playful oceanic waves, hiding secret emotional currents in the deep. If Dean had watched the fire that he was so proud of within Castiel snuff out in the blue, he’d have stopped fighting. When the demon had vacated, there would have been nothing left.

Thick, shaking tears traveled down the side of Dean’s nose. He could feel them, clammy and strangely warm on his skin, and he couldn’t care one bit. “Cas,” he croaked again.

“Dean!” Castiel’s hands trembled as they came up to brace Dean’s face, his fingers curling across his cheekbones. “I—I thought…”

Managing a weak, wobbly smile, Dean nodded. “I know, I know…” he murmured, watching the seas in Castiel’s eyes spill over and flood his cheeks.

“It’s alright,” Castiel said, his tone firm as if he was reassuring himself as much as Dean. “You’re alright.”

“I’m sorry,” Dean said, a pang of dark, churning guilt beginning to build in his gut as he saw the bruises already beginning to flare red across Castiel’s throat. There was a clear welt where the demon had tried to choke Castiel, tried to hold him against the wall by his neck to prevent the final words of the prayer being spoken. “God, Cas, I’m so sorry,” Dean wept.

Castiel hushed him, leaning in. Chaos around them, prying eyes and demonic clouds and possessed partygoers in suddenly macabre-looking masks all be damned; Castiel took a moment to lean in and press his mouth to Dean’s.

The simple, forgiving kiss healed the dark, hollow spot the demon had left in Dean like nothing else could have.

Castiel was trembling wildly, Dean realized, the shake of his shoulders becoming apparent as they clung to each other, kneeling on the floor.

“I thought I lost you,” Castiel mumbled against Dean’s lip.

“You saved me,” Dean responded, a relieved laugh beginning to clear up their mingling tears. “You clever, clever man… you saved me.”

“It was Sam, really,” Castiel said, already moving to stand and help Dean get to his feet. “He included the exorcism in the book of Latin spells he sent with us.”

“And you, my love,” Dean said between the two of them, proud and firm, “were the one with the presence of mind and cool enough head to use it.”

The tiny, shy, flattered edge to Castiel’s smile didn’t have time to develop further, as he was already assessing the room around them. “The demon—the ‘ _she’_ that Lady Donn spoke of—it took over Becky Rosen,” he said regretfully. “She discarded Lady Donn.”

Dean nodded, quickly retrieving his father’s knife from the floor where the demon in him had caused Castiel to drop it. He didn’t explain to Castiel that he’d been able to see exactly what had happened—they didn’t have time for that, not then. The loud scream of another possession pulled them both sharply back to attention. “Do you think the spell would work for more than one person, Cas?”

“It’s more of a prayer than a spell,” Castiel said thoughtfully, settling his last glass vial of holy oil into his palm, his eyes on the front of the room where Miss Becky was surveying her demonic troops. “So, perhaps it doesn’t need to be focused on just one individual, like usual spellwork does?”

“I thought you distrusted Sam’s occult nonsense and knew little about it,” Dean teased briefly, grasping at Castiel’s arm and angling him to point toward the crowd off to their left.

“It’s growing on me,” Castiel admitted, his eyes following Dean’s gesture. He pointed across the room, over the still-burning trail of holy oil that Becky had lit up before her own possession. Balthazar stood there, his rapier still clutched firmly in hand, a determined look on his face.

They still had one helper, at least.

“We need a distraction, then,” Dean said.

Castiel nodded. “If we can get the demons focused elsewhere, perhaps we can both recite the exorcism. I don’t know if it would be any stronger or more effective if we both did it, but…”

 _But whatever we do now, we’re doing together,_ hung in the air, unspoken.

Dean nodded firmly. “Yes. Let’s go, then.”

Castiel gathered up the book, and they dashed out from the quiet corner where Dean had been trapped and saved. They headed straight across the room toward Balthazar. Around them people jostled, running back and forth like headless chickens now, trying to avoid the swirling, sweeping jets of black smoke that zoomed around the ceiling. Their pale-faced, silent fear was long gone now they’d seen what had happened to their friends, and their hostess.

 _Silly, silly woman,_ Dean couldn’t help but think as he elbowed his way passed a hysterical man in a top hat, who was still clutching his painted mask in one hand. He couldn’t help but consider, though, how much grief and pain Lady Donn must have been hiding to drive her to this—to offering Napoleon himself demonic armies of Englishmen, merely to avenge the broken system that she held responsible for her husband’s death.

It was sad.

But it was also utterly insane, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to feel much pity for the erstwhile Lady Donn.

“ _Messieurs!”_ Balthazar cried out over the increasing noise as they drew near. “Please tell me you have a plan!”

“We need to feint,” Dean replied immediately, swiping his dagger overhead as another demonic cloud darted in his direction. “A distraction, if you will.”

“Why do I have a feeling that you mean _moi?_ ” Balthazar asked dryly, swiping his rapier through the same cloud. It didn’t do much to drive them back, but it at least seemed to be uncomfortable for the creatures, as the demon smoke pulled back to swirl once more around the room and pick an easier target. Unfortunately, there were many, many more where that one had come from.

“The stereotype of the cowardly Frenchman was entirely fictitious, I thought,” Castiel said from Dean’s other side. “Enough of you tried to shoot me, I should know. Don’t let yourself down now, Balthazar.”

With a _harrumph_ of displeasure, Balthazar flicked his eyes across to Dean. “What would you have me do, then?”

“We need to keep the majority of the demonic activity to one area,” Dean said. “Especially whatever beast occupies our little Miss Becky.”

“Ah! The poor girl,” Balthazar said. “I admit, she was growing on me.”

“Do you think you can taunt her?” Castiel asked impatiently, holding up his fist, holy oil still clamped within it. “If you can keep her eyes off us while we work a spell, or trap her perhaps…”

Balthazar looked at Castiel oddly. “Trap her? It would make more sense to trap yourselves, _non?”_

Dean blinked. He owed Balthazar a truly excellent bottle after this, he decided. “Yes—of course! She won’t be able to reach us if we encircle ourselves!”

Castiel was nodding alongside him. “A diversion, then, as soon as we get to the other side of the room. Mister Winchester and I will surround ourselves with the oil, and begin the prayer.”

“Pray hard enough for us all!” Balthazar announced dramatically, before raising his rapier like a feeble army standard as he pushed through the crowd.

Any other time Dean would have rolled his eyes at the Frenchman’s theatrical tendencies, but he didn’t waste the time. Instead, he pushed straight at Castiel’s elbow, pointing to an open area of floor right under a broken window, the same one that had admitted the black cloud of demons that were now picking off dancers and wallflowers in equal measure, one by one.

“Go!” Dean barked.

They’d barely been in place for a second when Dean heard Balthazar’s distinctive accent rising over the crowd.

“You! _Oui, madame_ —you with the awful voice and the very disagreeable taste in jewelry!”

“God help us,” Castiel muttered beneath his breath, and Dean couldn’t quite decide whether his partner was praying or cursing.

Wasting no time, Dean took the holy oil vial from Castiel and uncapped it while Castiel flicked frantically back through the pages of Sam’s neat handwriting. Quickly, he found the same words he’d recited earlier.

“If you’re going to take these men to fight with _la petit caporal_ , you should at least take a true Frenchman with you!” Balthazar taunted loudly, waving his arms, sword and all, and jumping in the air.

Dean dribbled the oil hurriedly around them.

Miss Becky, black-eyed and ominous, turned to Balthazar. Her horde moved with her, perfectly in sync, a creepy sight even without the extra terror of them all advancing on Dean’s ridiculous French friend.

The distraction seemed to have worked…but now they just had to work fast enough to keep Balthazar alive, not to mention everyone else in the room.

Striking a match and dropping it precisely on the ring of holy oil he’d created, Dean dove to Castiel’s side.

Holding the book open before them, Castiel started them off.

 _“Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus…”_ his deep voice rasped beside Dean, shouted out confidently over the flames.

Dean had managed to expand his Latin far beyond the words he’d required for Adam’s dull sermons since they’d begun this case, and he found himself able to join in assuredly, raising his voice to twine with Castiel’s. “ _Omnis satanica potestas…”_

Dean followed Castiel’s lead, speaking loud and strong, directing his voice outward. He tried to focus all of his energies _away_ —unfortunately, he’d never been inclined to learn much of the old arts, as Sammy had, though many evenings of listening to his brother babble about some advancement or another had given Dean the ability to recall vague lectures on the importance of “direction” and “intent,” So, he continued, letting his mind _push_ the spell out to encompass the whole room.

_“Omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica…”_

With a cacophony of growling, hissing, and pained screams, the smoky, violent jets of demonic energy around the room—still determinedly going through the crowd and picking out strong-looking vessels, trying over and over again as some could not withstand the possession, until they found one that stuck—shrieked out in horror as Dean and Castiel’s words hit their ears.

Or perhaps it wasn’t so much the sound of it, Dean pondered as he watched them writhe, but the feeling of whatever it was that the holy words did to their bodies.

As he and Castiel recited the old prayer, the envesselled demons all turned. Miss Becky, her body wracked with tremors at their words, sent Balthazar careering off into the nearest wall with a mere flick of her wrist.

Balthazar’s slim frame slammed against the wood paneling with a horrifying _THUD_ , and then he was still.

The dark cloud overhead, made up of swirling, furious demons who hadn’t yet found a proximal vessel, screeched en masse as they made for Dean and Castiel. They circled the small ring of flaming oil that Dean and Castiel were standing in the middle of, shoulder to shoulder. Like a whirlwind or tornado, the demons spun overhead, frenzied. The draft they were producing was alarmingly strong as they flew past, darting periodically at the leaping, wind-stoked flames. Dean and Castiel clung onto each other in the localized gale, the pages of the book fighting Castiel’s hands as they raised their voices even higher, struggling to be heard.

_“Ergo, draco maledicte. Ecclesiam tuam securi...”_

Dean tried his best to help Castiel with the book, holding the pages open so they could both see. By the time he flicked his eyes back up to check on the demons, the vortex of dark smoke had risen higher—allowing him to see the group of snarling, snapping possessed that were now circling their flaming cage.

Just behind them, calm and cold and bearing a cruel smile, stood Miss Becky Rosen, resplendent in her ballgown, flowing curled hair, and black eyes.

She turned to look at Castiel, her eyes narrowing, and raised one hand before herself.

Dean’s voice wavered as she focused on Cas, panicking. What if—

The book tumbled to the ground as Castiel was forcibly pulled through the air.

The demon drew Castiel forth with the mere spread of her fingers, his body jerking across the space between them like a discordant puppet. The toes of his boots trailed through the flaming oil, scrambling desperately for purchase against the floor as his path broke the circle protecting Dean. Castiel gargled, an anguished, airless sound, as her hand formed a fist.

Dean wanted to scream out Cas’ name—but he did not. No, there was only one way to really end this.

As Castiel flailed and seized, suspended above the flames, Dean frantically scrambled and reached for the book where it had fallen. The pages sped by in a blur as he frantically turned them, searching for the unfinished exorcism.

Over the screaming from the partygoers, the shrieking of the demons, and the howling of the wind, Dean could somehow still hear Castiel choking above all else.

On his knees on the floor, Dean held the book open with two hands, sweating and trembling as he screamed out, “ _Tibi facias libertate servire—”_

Becky shrieked like a banshee, and Castiel dropped, hurtling toward the flames.

_“—te rogamus, audi nos!”_

All at once, pitch-dark smoke erupted from Miss Becky’s mouth, her head flying backward as her jaw gaped, and Castiel hit the ground on his front, splayed out through the smoldering remnants of the holy oil.

Dean didn’t have time to watch her as the vessel slumped to the floor like a marionette whose strings had been crudely cut. Instead he threw himself forward, knocking Castiel out of the way of the remaining flames, smothering his body with his own.

Castiel’s fingers curled into the fabric of Dean’s bicep, and Dean could have cried with relief at the tiny motion. Two close calls in one evening was more than enough for a lifetime.

“Cas?”

“Dean,” Castiel croaked in affirmation, his voice rough but reassuring. “You did it—look.”

As Castiel instructed, Dean raised his head. The wind, he suddenly realized, from the tornado-like spin of the unvesselled demons as they circled the holy fire, was gone. The demon’s howling was fading, the final wisps of their black, smoky forms slamming into the ground and disappearing, as if they were being sucked into the very depths of the Earth.

The possessed partygoers—who had previously bared their teeth and growled unnaturally—were by then standing or kneeling on the floor, looking around wide eyed, some crying, some holding their heads. But all alive.

Blessedly, upon the wrecked chalk of the dancefloor, even Miss Becky stirred.

 _“Mademoiselle!”_ Balthazar’s voice sounded very stuffy as he rushed over to help her up. His face was swollen, his nose likely broken from his impact with the wall—but Dean was glad simply to hear him speaking at all.

Miss Becky trembled as she rose to her feet, but her eyes were thankfully clear and green.

Dean peeled himself reluctantly up off of Castiel, but couldn’t help his eyes roving across his form, searching for harm. He held out a hand, helping him up. “M’lord,” he murmured, mostly between the two of them, “are you alright?”

Castiel nodded, straightening his slightly singed cravat with one hand, still clinging to Dean with the other. “I am. I feel rather like I’ve been hung by the neck, but it will pass, I’m sure.”

“I’m so _sorry,_ ” Miss Becky was gushing weakly, flapping a very large handkerchief in front of her face that simply must have come from Balthazar. For his part, Balthazar was looking at her tears like she was a wild animal that might bite, and as if he wished to be absolutely anywhere else.

“It’s quite alright, miss,” Dean said to her, releasing Castiel’s hand to step across the dark brown, charred line on the dancefloor that marked where the flaming circle had been. “It was no fault of your own; one of the beasts took me, too, for a while there. If it hadn’t been for Lord Milton and his quick thinking, I believe we’d all have been lost.”

“Hear, hear,” Balthazar agreed, nodding firmly. “Both of you, you saved everyone in this room—and many more by the sounds of it, if Lady Donn’s plan had come to fruition. However did I not see what she was about, all this time? I feel a fool!”

“You couldn’t possibly have known her true motives,” Castiel croaked, his voice even lower and rougher than usual. He came up to stand beside Dean, his body slumping and tired looking, enough that Dean reached out to slip an arm about him in support, figuring that no one would see anything untoward about it.

Castiel leaned into Dean gratefully, a brief loaded look passing between them before they both turned back to the crowd gathering about.

“Gentlemen, ladies,” Dean announced, seeing many questioning eyes. “I can only commiserate with you that your evening has been so disrupted. I reassure you, the Men of Letters will handle all that needs to be dealt with—if I may suggest that you all return to your rooms until morning, then I’m sure arrangements can be made for you all to head back to your homes a little early.”

There were nods and rumbles of agreement, and finally a brave butler stepped up and began commanding the house staff, talking of cleaning and fetching fortifying drinks for the guests, to be taken to their rooms.

Dean wondered briefly what would happen to Sands House and its staff, now. Lady Donn had a will, he supposed; someone would be found to take it. If not, the beautiful house and grounds would likely revert to the crown. A shame.

Miss Becky moved across to Castiel at Dean’s side, reaching for his hands tearfully. “My dear Lord Milton, I wish I could apologize adequately for what that creature had me do to you. She was”—Becky shuddered delicately for a moment—”the darkest, most awful thing in my experience.”

“You remember it, then?” Castiel questioned gently, through his rasp. His eyes flicked briefly to Dean, and Dean knew that he’d be getting similar, but much more emphatic and probing questions later on, when they were alone. “You recall what she had you do, what it was like?”

Miss Becky nodded tearfully, patting at her eyes with Balthazar’s flag-sized kerchief. “It was awful. Her voice...she claimed that her name was Lilith, and that she was the Queen of Hell itself! I am so glad, sirs, that we had you here to save us all.”

“Well at least for now,” Dean interrupted gently, “we seem to all be safe. They are all gone.”

“They were sent back to Hell,” Miss Becky whispered, as if she didn’t wish to disturb the other guests, a few of whom were still milling about, gathering themselves and being rather nosy. “I could hear them screaming as they were pulled back to the abyss. You didn’t kill them; you returned them from whence they came.”

“And that,” Castiel croaked defiantly, “is where they shall stay.”

At least, Dean considered, they had avenged Sinclair—and perhaps Castiel’s brother, too, it turned out—after jumping to initial poor conclusions about the man. Perhaps the next time he passed a church, he’d light a candle in his memory. Though, that was more Castiel’s style, so he’d leave that to him—surely Sinclair wouldn’t mind a whiskey or two poured in his name, instead.

Tiredly refocusing, Dean realized that conversation was still flowing around him.

“If the foul creatures return, we shall simply banish them once more,” Balthazar said, obstinate, resting the heel of his hand on the pommel of his rapier, which he had slipped through his belt.

“You made us proud, friend,” Dean offered Balthazar with a warm smile. “Your assistance was valuable, indeed. We could make a Lettersman of you, you know.”

Balthazar wrinkled his nose. “I am fond of honor, ‘tis true, but not so good at following orders, you know.”

“I think it would be terribly exciting,” Miss Becky declared, clapping her hands together even though the sound was muffled by Balthazar’s kerchief. “Do you not seek adventure, Mister Roche?”

“Balthazar, Miss Becky, please, none of this English formality. And for the moment at least, _non_ , _mademoiselle…_ I do not seek adventure. Only my bed, and a strong tot of good English gin.”

Dean and Castiel both chuckled. Resettling his arm around Castiel’s waist, though it was doubtful that he needed the support any more, Dean inclined his head to their friends. “If you will excuse us, I believe I should ensure that Lord Milton gets to his room in one piece.”

Castiel glared a little, but didn’t discourage a totally acceptable reasoning for them to retire together.

Balthazar’s smirk was less subtle, but then the man smirked and simpered most of the time, so it was doubtful anyone would notice.

“Come along then, m’lord,” Dean said, moving toward the doors.

Once they had walked through the gallery of past Donn family members and made their way up the wide staircase, the hustle of other guests around them had quieted and they were finally alone. As they walked along the hallway to where their rooms were, Dean slipped his supporting arm from around Castiel to slide it gently into his hand, instead, giving it an illicit squeeze.

“We did it, Cas,” he whispered.

“My first solved case,” Castiel mused, smiling across at Dean. He was a little pale, but it served only to make his eyes appear even bluer.

“And what a case it was,” Dean said, drawing to a halt outside the guest room Castiel had been given. After looking up and down the hallway to ensure that no gossiping maids lurked, he pulled Castiel’s hand up to his lips, pressing a kiss to knuckles.

Castiel smiled, his posture easing.

“I’m sure you’re tired,” Dean began, “and you should rest after being thrown around like that, certainly.”

“I’m well, Dean,” Castiel interrupted equally quietly. “Just a sore throat, really, a few aches.”

Dean’s thumb traveled across Castiel’s knuckles, and he regarded his hand for a moment; taking in calloused skin, a small split from fighting, smudges of oil and ash. “I know you probably declared your feelings to me based on the concern that one or both of us might not survive this day,” Dean began quietly.

Castiel’s head tilted, but he let Dean continue.

“I’m glad, of course, that we did both make it”—Dean briefly interrupted himself with an awkward chuckle—“but if you regret anything, or—”

“Dean,” Castiel interjected softly.

“I just mean that I would never seek to presume—”

“Dean,” Castiel said louder.

“Our lives will always be dangerous, Cas. Being Men of Letters, I mean. There will always be a chance that one of us will be left alone.”

Castiel lifted his head defiantly, and spoke again, more firmly. “Dean, all that means to me is that we must take the chance to enjoy what we have, every single day.”

In the quiet of the corridor, Castiel pushed Dean’s hand aside to lean forward, pressing his lips gently to Dean’s own, before smirking into his lower lip. His hand moved back, turning the knob on the door to swing it open behind them.

“Between you and I, Dean, please...always presume.”

Tugged swiftly through the doorway and into Castiel’s bedroom beyond, Dean let out a laugh. Tomorrow, they would head back to London, do their reports, return to their job.

For now, they could enjoy a night of peace.


	12. Chapter 12

Lord Michael Milton had been quite exalted in his time with the Men of Letters; it was mostly before Dean’s time, as Michael had been at least ten years older than he—but Dean recalled seeing the man at Great Queen Street, reporting in to Bobby and going about his business, as well as out and about in society. He certainly hadn’t given much thought to where his apartments might have been within the building on Sackville Street, though. They weren’t friends, and as such, Dean had never had reason to visit Michael’s rooms until he was long gone and Castiel had settled into them.

The first time Dean had actually entered them had been after their exhausting day in Twickenham, before he and Castiel had taken a stroll through the Birdcage Walk and kissed in the rain. And, at the time, his attention had been very much on Castiel, and he hadn’t observed much of the apartments themselves.

Now, laying amongst Castiel’s fine duck down pillows, the weight of a warm, heavy quilt covering him to his chest, Dean had plenty of time to admire the spacious attic apartments. The walls were deep red above polished oak paneling, and the dark wood of the floor was dotted with rugs woven with similar shades. Most of the furniture was heavy, fine oak that matched the room exceedingly well—Dean was fairly sure Michael had ordered it made to fit, as he was almost certain that Castiel wouldn’t have cared much about the color of the carved scrollwork on the secretary desk under the window. The room was very pleasant, though, to Dean’s mind.

Since returning from the Cotswolds after midsummer, Dean had spent almost every night here. He was fond of being woken by the fingers of sunlight that reached through the east facing windows that looked out across the city; it was almost infinitely preferable to being woken by his brother clattering around the adjoining bedroom, dressing for his morning constitutional. Sam was far too early a riser for Dean. (Or for anyone in their right mind.)

This, cozy amongst the bedding with Castiel sprawled along the mattress to his left, the sunlight lazily bringing him from sleep, was far preferable to Dean.

Shifting onto his side, Dean stretched out and reached for Castiel, wrapping one arm across his chest and snuggling him inward until he sleepily melded to Dean’s front, his back a solid plane of heat against Dean’s chest. He loved this time of day, now; he’d never call himself a morning person, but he was certainly a “quiet time in bed with Castiel” person.

Castiel shifted in Dean’s arms, half-awake but seemingly choosing to keep his eyes screwed shut and bask in Dean’s warmth rather than face the day. Smiling down at him, Dean leaned down and pressed his lips to Castiel’s neck, nuzzling into the side of it, letting his mouth drag across Castiel’s skin.

Letting out a content little noise, Castiel rolled his head back onto the pillow, opening one eye to peer up at Dean with a hazy, sleepy smile.

“Hello, Dean,” he rumbled softly. The sunlight shafting brightly through the window hit Castiel’s face and he squinted, screwing up his eyes as he blinked up at Dean.

Chuckling, Dean shifted on his hip to lean further over, shading Castiel’s face with the shadow of his own. “Good morning, m’lord,” he said teasingly, tilting his face to press his lips to Castiel’s forehead. Wild curls of soft, untended bed-hair pressed into Dean’s nose, and he couldn’t help but smile.

It still, every morning, astounded him that he got to wake up to this. That he got to have this at all.

Castiel’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment as Dean’s lips rested against his forehead, staying that way for a luxurious few seconds more even after Dean had retreated. “Did you sleep well?” he asked Dean once he’d stretched, and wrapped his arms up around his neck, toying lazily with the hair at his nape. “No nightmares?”

Dean shook his head, ignoring the light flush that he knew colored his neck, and instead murmuring down into Castiel’s cheek, “No. Here with you...I always sleep peacefully. I dream of waking up to you, instead.”

His efforts at communicating his own thoughts and feelings with Castiel were rewarded with a wide, soft grin that crinkled the sleepy corners of Castiel’s slightly hooded eyes and thoroughly destroyed any intentions Dean may have been harboring to get them out of bed and to the dining hall for breakfast.

Instead, he moved his lips to Castiel’s neck, letting his tongue run rough down the side of it until he reached the fleshy spot where his shoulder began. Dean grinned against Castiel’s skin then, loving the way that Castiel immediately went limp in delight, his head pushing back into the pillow in anticipation. Dean’s hands journeyed lazily down Castiel’s body while his lips and teeth sowed the beginnings of a possessive mark onto Castiel’s skin. He was always careful never to let his lips wander above where Castiel’s cravat would cover in public, but he knew by now that the good Lord Milton loved to go about his day with the tender remains of Dean’s attention still on his body, here and there.

Dean certainly didn’t complain.

Castiel’s breathing was already picking up below Dean, the filling of his rib cage pushing their chests closer together each time he softly gasped. Dean felt Castiel’s fingers scratch their way lightly down his spine, the shudder of his response only propelling Castiel’s hands further south.

Pulling off Castiel’s neck with a soft _pop_ , Dean pressed his thumb to the gently blooming bruise, keeping his touch firm but soothing. Castiel’s hands didn’t stop their trek downward, both of his palms cupping Dean’s bare buttocks and pulling them temptingly apart, one determined finger brushing between them.

Dean grinned against the bolt of Castiel’s jaw. “Oh, it's to be that kind of morning, is it?”

Letting out a low chuckle, Castiel stretched to the side of the bed and tugged open the drawer of his bedside table, pulling out the small jar of sweet oil that was carefully hidden within it. They no longer had Andrews, the valet, come up to this suite, but you could never quite be sure where other servants would pry while they were out.

Ostensibly, of course, Dean still had his own rooms. Purportedly, he spent each night there. Or so Sam would have dutifully vouched if he was ever asked.

The number of his belongings that wound up here, scattered amongst Castiel’s things, was really none of anyone’s business, he figured. But, Castiel was determined that they be as careful as they could; so the most obvious indications of their relationship were tucked away out of sight, and they never arrived at the dining hall together. They were subtle, Dean liked to think.

“It certainly can be that kind of morning, if we have time…” Castiel replied, pausing only momentarily for Dean’s eager agreeing nod before he coated his fingers in the oil.

“We can make time,” Dean breathed out into Castiel’s shoulder as he pushed back against the slippery, warm sensation of Castiel’s fingers returning to their previous business. Dean reached down between them, coaxing Castiel’s hefty length to full hardness while he worked at Dean.

After only a few more minutes, Dean was pushing Castiel’s hand aside, swinging his leg overtop of him and straddling his waist.

They had both said, in the cozy, whispered discussions of late nights that turned into early mornings, that being able to take their time like this, be so intimate with each other, was something far beyond what either of them had hoped for in their lives. They took full advantage of their luck now, though. To share love, and not just in the form of hasty fumbles, was still a heady, delightful experience for them both. Dean wondered if that would ever change, and had a suspicion that it might not.

Curling his chin forward into his chest with a gasp, Dean sank down.

Castiel, for his part, moaned aloud as his fists twisted into the bedsheets, and he hastily bit down on his lip to lower his own volume.

It just wouldn’t do to have someone running into the room and finding the two of them so crudely entwined, though the thought amused Dean more than he’d care to admit. Some of his stuffy colleagues could use a good dose of exactly what he was getting.

Dean’s thoughts were quickly otherwise occupied as Castiel’s large hands came up to his thighs, pulling Dean down flush against his hip bones, pushing his pelvis up to meet Dean on every roll his body made. Dean’s mouth hung open, panting out quiet but enthusiastic sounds as he rode the gorgeous man below him.

“Dean,” Castiel ground out between his teeth, his stomach muscles tensing beneath Dean’s splayed hands. “You feel so good, if you want this to last much longer then I must suggest—”

Grinning wickedly, Dean didn’t even allow Castiel to finish. He leaned down, joining them in a filthy kiss, trapping his cock between them as he increased the speed and depth of his determined rocking.

They did, after all, have somewhere to be.

Castiel groaned helplessly, one hand leaving red pressure marks between the freckles at Dean’s hip, the other sliding up Dean’s front until it found his nipple, pinching at tweaking at it in a way he’d soon learned drove Dean to distraction.

Trembling as he pressed himself around Castiel ever further, the pressure in Dean’s core grew until he was merely panting and heaving in breaths against Castiel’s lips. With a slight grin of his own, Castiel’s hand left Dean’s hip. An animalistic grunt fell from Dean as Castiel’s wicked fingers slipped between them, pushing into the flesh behind Dean’s balls and massaging there firmly until he jerked, sweating and feeble, and spilled thickly across Castiel’s stomach.

“You cruel man,” Dean teased, breathless and boneless as he lay atop Castiel—held in place then by both of Castiel’s large palms on his thighs.

Castiel didn’t respond, too busy falling apart as he worked his hips, chasing his own end inside Dean.

Letting out a shaking groan of Dean’s name as he filled him, Castiel seemed disinclined to do much but lay amongst the oily sheets, painted in Dean’s colors, for long minutes once they were done.

Eventually, having flopped off of Castiel’s chest and rolled to the side, Dean turned to press his lips to Castiel’s cheek.

“I suppose I should clean us up and we should dress, don’t you think?”

Castiel let out a low rumble that could have meant anything from “Yes, my love,” to “I’m never moving again.”

Dean decided it was the latter, as Castiel barely shifted even as Dean wiped at his stomach.

“Come along now, Cas,” Dean cajoled, tickling into his side. “You know we have to be at Bobby’s soon.”

“Then you shouldn’t have made me unable to move.”

“Lazy Lord,” Dean teased, throwing the cloth he’d used aside before stealing kisses from Castiel’s eager lips. “Get up, and let’s dress.”

For a reason Dean didn’t understand (but did appreciate), the prospect of dressing Dean in the mornings was almost always enough to pull Castiel from between the sheets. The soft smile that graced his lover’s face as he smoothed his waistcoat and tied his cravat was quite lovely, and Dean was under no illusion he probably looked much the same as he assisted Castiel in turn.

More than half an hour later, finally dressed and some semblance of ordered (though Castiel’s hair was, as always, a lost cause), Dean brought them both their hats.

“I do believe we missed breakfast,” Castiel said, smiling apologetically as he tucked his beneath his arm.

Dean gave a little shrug. “Don’t tell my brother, but I think what we just did is one activity I prefer even over bacon.”

Chuckling, Castiel opened the door, and having declared the coast clear, the two of them began to walk the distance to Great Queen Street, a respectable distance apart.

Castiel liked very few things about taking over his late brother’s title so far, but he had to admit that the Men of Letters were growing on him, slowly but surely. After the whirlwind of his first few months in the society and the events of midsummer, he hadn’t been sure that this life was for him.

But now, after having spent a week at leisure with Dean, along with the nights and the lazy mornings, he was coming around. Especially when he was woken in the manner that Dean had woken him this morning.

He looked over to give Dean a fond smile as they parted ways at the corner of Great Queen Street. Dean would proceed directly to headquarters, while Castiel continued along Drury Lane, looping around to enter the building from the southern entrance. The morning was fine and warm, and he enjoyed the sun on his face as it shone between the taller buildings. He tried to slow his pace; it wouldn’t do for him to arrive too soon after Dean, or questions might be raised.

Personally, he didn’t much care for what society thought of his and Dean’s relationship; could two men, colleagues, even, not be close friends? But he’d continue to uphold the Men of Letters’ reputation, for Dean’s sake, if for no other reason. The society was Dean’s life, his family, and Castiel knew he would do anything Dean asked of him.

When he finally reached headquarters and made his way up to Bobby’s office, he met Dean outside Bobby’s door. Dean had been intending to meet with his brother beforehand, and it seemed that their arrival at Bobby’s door was coincidental, after all. So much for subtlety.

Dean opened Bobby’s door just as Castiel bowed to him. Dean returned the gesture, murmuring, “Good morning, Lord Milton,” with a soft smirk on his features.

Castiel found himself returning the smile as he said, “Winchester. I trust you had a good night’s rest.”

Dean replied gently, “I did, thank you.”

As they entered the office, they saw Bobby standing behind his desk, watching their exchange with a dry look on his face, one eyebrow raised. He cleared his throat, shuffling papers in his hands on the top of his desk. “Milton, Winchester,” he said gruffly. “Sit down, would you? I don’t have all day.” He rang a bell on the wall behind his desk, and when one of the footmen appeared at the door, Bobby said, “Bring tea, please.”

Once the three of them were settled in chairs, Bobby got straight to business. “Firstly, I received some news this morning you’ll be interested in. You’ll recall the notes we found at Sinclair’s apartment?”

Castiel and Dean shared a surprised look, then Dean said, “Yes, the ones in code?”

Bobby nodded. “Correct. Well, Ash has worked on it all this time, and he’s finally cracked it.”

Castiel was still baffled by Ash being the premier code-breaker for the Men of Letters, but he tried to keep his astonishment quiet as Bobby continued.

“The code was some alchemical invention, only able to be read by smearing one’s blood across it. Messy business. Ash’s fingers should recover in time.” He waved a hand, dismissing Ash’s condition as Dean murmured, “Blood?”

“In any case, the account said that Sinclair had suspected Lady Donn might have been practicing some kind of occultism for a long while, and had been trying to win her affections so that he could measure some kind of energy levels in the rooms she was renting on St. James’ Street. He mentions—” He leaned forward to emphasize his point. “—that he suspected the Lady might be suspicious of his and Lord Milton’s attention.”

“And this was just before Sinclair disappeared?” Castiel asked.

“No, this is much earlier, before Michael’s death.” Bobby sat back in his chair as the footman brought in a tray with a teapot and three cups, along with some small cakes.

Dean asked, “You think Lady Donn had them both killed for getting too close?”

Bobby nodded as he poured tea. “We never got anything conclusive from Michael’s body, but it seems likely.”

Castiel also nodded, Lady Donn’s comments from the ball at Sands House making more sense now. As welcome as it was to know the cause of Michael’s death, he couldn’t exactly go back to his family and tell them he had died hunting a sorceress who summoned demons from another plane of existence. No, he would have to keep that information to himself.

“If only Sinclair had reported all this to me sooner, we wouldn’t have spent so long trying to hunt down an unknown killer,” Bobby mused, obviously annoyed. “In any case, Lady Donn is no more, and the demons are banished. Very nice work, both of you.”

Castiel glanced at Dean again, who nodded and smiled back at him.

“Thank you, Sir,” Dean said to Bobby, taking the teacup from him.

“Now, you mentioned tattoos earlier. Have you got that design ready for me?” Bobby asked, eyes on Dean.

“Not yet, sir, but I’m working on it,” Dean said, a faint flush across the top of his cheeks.

Dean had been tasked with designing a new protective tattoo for the Men of Letters, based on the holy cross on Castiel’s back that had protected him during the invasion. Castiel knew that Dean had certainly been studying the tattoos, but that had mostly involved mapping them out with his lips and tongue, and had led to activities other than drawing any designs. The memory brought a warm flush to his own cheeks as he ate one of the cakes.

Bobby nodded, his face serious. “Well, see that you do. There’s more work to be done and I want us all protected.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean replied.

Bobby paused, looking at each of them in turn before he continued. “I know that I threw the both of you into this case, when perhaps you weren’t quite ready to have a new partner, Dean. You each expressed that you were reluctant to work with the other, and yet you’ve each proven yourselves in this case.” He paused to sip at his tea. “I’d like to offer you both the option of taking on one of our newer recruits, such as Monsieur Roche, perhaps? Or you could act as chaperone on a training case with the young Miss Rosen.”

Castiel and Dean both spoke at once, voicing their dismay. “Oh no, sir,” Castiel began, just as Dean said, “No, please not Miss Rosen.”

Castiel threw Dean a quelling look and spoke up again. “Mister Singer, we’ve sorted through our differences, and honestly, our skills complement each other quite well. I would be happy to work a case with Winchester again, if he’s willing.”

Bobby quirked an eyebrow again, his face stoic as he turned his gaze to Dean. “Well, Dean? What say you?”

Dean sipped at his tea, eyeing Castiel over the edge of the cup. Castiel could see a faint flush across the top of his cheeks, and the sight set something warm alight in his own chest.

“Oh, he’s a fast learner, Sir. I’d take him for another run.”

“Indeed?” Bobby asked, a smirk about his lips. “Very well. I have another case for you, then. Immediately, if you’re willing.”

Castiel was aware of Dean sitting forward on his chair, even as his own interest was piqued.

“A number of people over in the Houndsditch area have reported strange happenings, gas lights flickering, chills, odd banging sounds, apparitions, even. Are you interested?”

Dean turned to Castiel again, and asked, “What do you say, m’lord? Want to meet a spirit?”

Castiel couldn’t help but huff an incredulous laugh. How was this his life, now? He suddenly found, though, that he wouldn't like to change a thing.

He replaced his teacup on the tray and stood, throwing a grin to Dean. “Of course.”

THE END

**Author's Note:**

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